Underworld
by Superles
Summary: Wrote this due to my love of both Underworld and Spashley. Please R&R
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****/Author's Note:** This follows Greg Cox's novelization of Underworld (which belongs to Kevin Grevioux, Len Wisemen and Danny McBride) **VERY **closely, so really he deservers all the created. South of Nowhere belongs to Thomas Lynch.

Please R&R.

**Chapter One**

Budapest was no stranger to war. Over the long, bloody centuries, the Hungarian capital had been captured and fought over by a succession of conquerors-Huns, Goths, Magyars, Turks, Hapsburgs, Nazis, and Soviets-before finally reclaiming its independence in the concluding decade of the twentieth century. But all these merely human conflicts were fleeting in comparison with the shadowy, ageless war now being fought in the moonlit streets and alleys of the ancient city. A war that, at long last, might be nearing its end.

Driving rain pelted the rooftops, while the howling autumn wind carried a hint of winter's bite. A grotesque stone gargoyle, oily black and slick with rain, perched on the crumbling ledge of the historic Klotild Palace, an imposing, five-story apartment block adorned by elaborate Spanish-Baroque stonework. The one-hundred-year-old edifice, whose ground floor now housed an art gallery, a cafe, and various stylish boutiques, overlooked Ferenciek Square, a busy hub of pedestrian and auto traffic located near the heart of central Pest. Buses, trolleys, and taxis zipped along the cobblestone streets below, braving the torrential downpour.

Another figure crouched beside the petrified gargoyle, very nearly as still and silent: a beautiful woman, clad in lustrous black leather, with long brown hair and alabaster skin. Heedless of both the storm and her own precarious roost upon the narrow ledge, she gazed grimly from the rooftop. Her striking chestnut eyes were fixed on the teeming streets beneath her, even as her somber thoughts looked back upon centuries of unremitting warfare.

_Could it truly be, _Ashley reflected, _that the war is almost over?_ Her lovely pale elegant face was a mask of cold-blooded concentration, betraying no sign of restless anxieties troubling her mind. _It seems unthinkable, and yet..._ The enemy had been losing ground for nearly six centuries, ever since its crushing defeat back in 1409, when a daring assault team had penetrated the opposition's hidden fortress in Moldavia. Glen, the most feared and ruthless leader ever to rule the lycan horde, had been killed at last, his men scattered to the wind in a single evening of purifying flame and retribution. Yet the ancient blood feud had proved unwilling to follow Glen to the grave. Though the lycans were fewer in number, the war had become even more perilous-for the moon no longer held her sway. Older, more powerful lycans were now able to change form at will, posing an even greater threat to Ashley and her follow Death Dealers. For close to six hundred years, the Dealers, an elite squad of vampire warriors, had pursued the surviving man-beasts, the weapons changing but never the tactics: hunt the lycans down, and kill them off, one by one. A most successful campaign.

_Perhaps too successful, _she mused ruefully. The tail of her glossy black trench coat flapped in the wind as she leaned forward over the edge of the rooftop, defying gravity. A five-story plunge beckoned precipitously, but Ashley's mind still dwelt on the war and its potential aftermath. According to all their intel, obtained at great cost by undercover agents and paid human informants, the lycans were scattered and in disarray, their numbers scant and diminishing. After countless generations of brutal combat, it appeared the loathsome beasts finally had become an endangered species, a thought that filled Ashley with profoundly mixed feelings.

On one hand, she eagerly looked forward to exterminating the lycans once and for all; this was, after all, what she had lived for all these years. The world would be a better place when the carcass of the last savage man-beast was left rotting in the sun. And yet...Ashley couldn't help feeling a tremor of apprehension at the prospect of an end to her long crusade. For such as she, the final extinction of the lycans would signal the close of an era. Soon, like the discarded weapons of the previous centuries, she, too, would become obsolete.

_A pity,_ she thought, her tongue tracing the polished contours of her fangs. Tracking and killing lycans had been her only pleasure for ages, and she had come to love it dearly. _What will I do when the war is over?_ the shapely vampire fretted, facing an eternity without purpose. _What am i if not a Death Dealer?_

The icy rain sluiced down her face and form, forming sooty puddles on the ornate rooftop. The smoggy night air smelled of ozone, presaging thunderbolts to come. Ashley ignored the fierce wind and rain, maintaining her stakeout upon the ledge. She searched intently for her prey, craving action to dispel the melancholy doubts haunting her mind. She glanced impatiently at the clock tower of the Klotild's sister building, on the other side of the busy Szabadsajto Avenue. It was a quarter to nine, the sun had been down for hours, so where the hell were those goddamn lycanthropes?

The crowded sidewalks below were chocked with umbrellas, obscuring her view of the pedestrians scurrying about in the rain, defying the storm from beneath their concealing bumbershoots. Ashley clenched her fists in frustration, her sharpened nails digging into her ivory palms. Surveillance teams had reported definite lycan activity in this district, but she had yet to spot a single target. _Where are you hiding, you bloody animals?_ she thought irritably.

She began to fear that their prey had eluded them, that the wolf pack had decamped under the cover of daylight, seeking a more secluded lair elsewhere. Sadly, it would not be the first time a mangy pack of lycanthropes managed to relocate before the Death Dealers caught up with them.

She shivered beneath her leathers, the inclement weather beginning to get to her despite her snug attire and intense resolve. It was tempting to give up and call it a night, but no, that was not an option. A look of stubborn determination came over her face as she shrugged off her momentary weakness. There were lycans abroad tonight, she knew it, and she wasn't about to let them get away, even if it meant crouching in the rain until nearly sunrise.

Her keen eyes searched the hectic streets below. At first she spotted nothing suspicious. Then-_wait! Over there! _Her eyes narrowed as they zeroed in on two unsavoury-looking individuals making their way down a crowded sidewalk. Eschewing umbrellas, the two men roughly weaved through the ambulatory throng, using jabbing elbows and surly glares to clear a path for themselves amidst the myriad other pedestrians aboard in the storm. Scuffed leather jackets protected the men from the worst of the wind and rain.

An angry hiss escaped Ashley's pale red lips. Even in human form, the roving lycans filled her veins with hatred and revulsion. Their present shape could not deceive her; she knew full well that the two ruffians were not really people at all, just filthy animals masquerading as men.

She recognized them at once from her intel briefings. The larger lycanthrope, some one-hundred-plus kilos of barely contained murderous intent, was known as Clay (_**AN – I have buff Clay up for this)**_. Some of the analysts back at the mansion maintained that the muscular black lycan was now the alpha-male of the central European pack, while others speculated that some other lycan, as yet unidentified, outranked even Clay. Either way, the bald-headed bruiser struck Ashley as a formidable opponent; she looked forward to filling him full of silver.

His companion, a smaller lycan maybe eighty kilos in weight, was obviously a lesser specimen. He was Caucasian in appearance, with nervous, ratlike features and a head of untidy brown hair. Ashley watched as Clay rudely shoved the other lycan, whose name was reputedly Trix, out of his way as the bullying lycan hurried down the congested sidewalk, intent on the Elders only knew what sort of barbaric mischief.

Looking past the two lycans, trying to anticipate their destination, she found her eye briefly snared by a good looking young woman trekking through the rain about half a block ahead of Clay and Trix. Very beautiful, with dark blonde hair, she was dressed casually in a windbreaker, dark pants, and sneakers. No umbrella shielded her slender person from the storm, and she hurried east with her hands cupped above her head. Something about her manner and bearing suggested to Ashley that the attractive youth was an American. She felt a twinge of regret that she couldn't get a closer look at the blonde eyes.

_Never mind that! _she scolded herself harshly, appalled that she had allowed the human to distract her from her mission, however momentarily. This was no time for girl watching, even if there were room in her life for romance, which there most certainly was not. She was a soldier, not a dreamy-eyed maiden or wanton seducer; her immortality had been given over to the crusade against the lycans, and killing werewolves was the only passion she indulged.

_And after the war? _Once again, her misgivings about the future intruded upon her consciousness, mixed with the tantalizing possibilities of a brand-new existence. _What then? _But first, she reminded herself, there were still battles to be won-and lycans to be slain.

Turning her attention back to Clay and Trix, Ashley looked up to see if her fellow warriors had detected the two lycans as well. A smile of satisfaction lifted her lips as she saw that, atop a neo-Gothic office building on the other side of a dingy alley, Rigel already had his digital camera out and was busily taking snapshots of the unsuspecting pair below them. _I should have known better than to doubt his alertness, _she thought, pleased by the dashing vampire's skill and professionalism. Rigel's serene, angelic expression belied his effectiveness as a Death Dealer. He had killed more lycans personally than Ashley readily could recall.

Like her, the other vampire was perched like a gargoyle above the streets. The yowling wind made it impossible for Ashley to hear Rigel's camera at work, but she had no doubt that the expensive digital device was clicking away as Rigel took advantage of his lofty vantage point to capture several candid photos of their foes. Examining the photos afterward would help Ashley confirm tonight's kills.

Assuming the hunt went well, of course. She knew better than to underestimate their lycan prey.

Rigel lowered his camera, his surveillance work complete. Ashley glimpsed his turquoise eyes shimmering in the moonlight. His slicked-backed hair and refined Slavic features lent him an (entirely unintentional) resemblance to a young Bela Lugosi, back when the legendary movie Dracula was still a matinee idol on the Hungarian stage. Rigel cocked his head like a bird of prey and peered across the lonely alley separating the two buildings, awaiting Ashley's signal to proceed.

She didn't even bother to check on Nathaniel, confident that the third vampire was equally ready, just as a Death Dealer should be. Turning her gaze downward, she watched in silence as the two lycans passed directly beneath her roost. They moved with deliberate purpose, seemingly unaware of the vampires' presence. Ashley wondered in passing what foul errand had drawn Clay and Trix from their hidden den.

_No matter, _she concluded, tracking the disguised man-beasts with hate-filled eyes. The very sight of the vile creatures made her deathless heart beat faster, provoking an instinctive urge to wipe the voracious beasts off the face of the earth. Long-dead images flashed before her mind's eye.

_Twin girls, no more than six years old, screaming in mortal terror. An older girl, on the verge of womanhood, her throat savagely torn open. A silver-haired man in antiquated attire, his skull cracked open to reveal the pulped gray matter of his brain. A cozy parlor, its sheltering walls liberally splattered with gore. Mutilated bodies and limbs, a once __belonging to deeply cherished souls, ripped asunder and cast aside like crimson flower petals..._

Unhealed wounds bled afresh deep within Ashley's core. Her fingers rested on the cold metal grips of the twin automatic pistols holstered beneath her trench coat, and she glared in silent fury at Clay and his skulking accomplice. The lycans' intentions were of no consequence tonight, she resolved. Their plans were about to be cancelled-permanently.

More than twenty meters below, Ashley's quarry loped down the block. They splashed carelessly through greasy puddles as they elbowed their way east onto Frernciek Square. Holding her breath in anticipation, she waited a beat, then flashed a silent hand signal to her waiting comrades in arms. Without a moment's qualm, she stepped confidently off the ledge.

Like a leather-clad spectre, she plummeted a full five stories toward the stony, unyielding floor of the alley. The death-defying fall almost certainly would have killed a mortal woman, or at the very least left her broken and bleeding upon the pavement, yet Ashley landed with the nimble elegance of a jaguar, so inhumanly smooth and graceful that she appeared to be striding briskly away before her black leather boots even touched down upon the rain-swept cobblestones.

She was thankful that the punishing weather had cleared this particular side street of humanity, unlike the busier thoroughfares nearby. No startled eyes, human or otherwise, witnessed Ashley's preternatural descent or heard the stealthy rustle of wet leather that heralded Rigel's appearance from around the corner. Ashley acknowledged the other vampire's presence with the merest nod of her head, then looked up a Nathaniel-a pale skinned apparition with a mane of flowing black hair-dropped onto the cobblestones from above, falling in behind the other teo Death Dealers.

A trio of steely-eyed killers, more superlatively lethal than any merely human assassins, Ashley and her deadly comrades melted into the crowd on Szabadsajto Avenue. Remaining far less conspicuous than their more ill-mannered prey, they expertly shadowed the two lycans, neither of whom displayed any sign that he was aware of their pursuers. _Just as it should be_, Ashley thought, smiling in expectation of the slaughter to come. The comforting weight of her 9-mm Beretta pistols rested securely against her hips.

The bustling city square, packed with innocent human bystanders, was obviously no place to stage an ambush, but she felt positive that an ideal opportunity would present itself if they just followed the lycans long enough. _With any luck, they'll be dead before they even know they're under attack!_

Ashley saw Clay furtively glance back over his shoulder and ducked behind the welcome cover of a tall green telephone box. Luckily, the wary lycan did not seem to have spotted her and promptly continued on his way.

A lighted sign, flaunting a lager blue M against a white background, caught her eye. From the looks of it, Clay and Trix were navigating toward the sign, which indicated an entrance to a Metro station beneath the square. _Of course, _she realized; the prowling lycans where doubtless heading for the Underground, to catch the M3 line to parts unknown.

This did not concern her overmuch. Having finally sighted two promising targets, she was hardly going to let them elude her so easily. Ashley signalled her companions, pointing out the Metro station's assorted entrances and exits, and the three vampires dispersed noiselessly, blending into the churning sea of umbrellas like ethereal beings composed of nothing but insubstantial shadows and rain...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two**

_Shit!_ Spencer Carlin thought as she dashed for the Metro entrance, holding her hands above her head in futile effort to keep from being soaked entirely by the nocturnal deluge. The young American kicked herself mentally for forgetting her umbrella back at her tiny apartment. _Just my luck we had to get the storm of the century, _she thought, shaking her head in good-natured bemusement. Her dark blonde hair was plastered to her scalp, and a trickle of cold rainwater leaked beneath the collar of her nylon windbreaker to send an ice-cold shiver down the entire length of her spine. _The night's already off to a bad start, and I haven't even made it to work yet!_

She glanced at her (_thank _G_od!)_ waterproof wristwatch. If she hurried, she could still make it to the hospital in time for her nine o'clock shift, assuming the subways were running on schedule. Then she only had to survive nine-plus hours in the ER before venturing out into the open again. _Probably still be raining then, too,_ she figured.

A gibbous moon peeked through the massed black storm clouds overhead. Spencer grimaced at the sight of the moon-and the thought of the long hours ahead. She wasn't looking forward to tonight's shift; the casualty ward always got crazier as the full moon approached, and the swollen yellow disk in the sky was only a sliver away from full.

Times like this, she couldn't help wondering if moving to Hungary had been such a good idea...

Her sneakers overflowing with water, she sloshed over to the steps leading to the subway station. "_Bejarat,"_ read the metal sign posted above the stairs, much to Spencer's relief, "Entrance" and "Exit" ("_Kijarat")_ were two of the first words she had learnt upon arriving in Budapest months ago, along with the Hungarian equivalents of "Do you speak English?" ("_Beszel angolul?") _and "I don't understand" ("_Nem ertem_"). She was thankful her Hungarian had improved since then.

To her frustration, the concrete archway at the bottom of the steps was clotted by a swarm of dump Hungarians fumbling with their umbrellas, which forced her to spend several more seconds in the pouring rain. By the time she finally reached the shelter of the station itself, she looked and felt like a drowned rat. _Oh well, _she thought, trying to maintain a sense of humour about the whole situation. _If I wanted to be dry all the time, I should have looked for a residency in the Sahara!_

Although Budapest had boasted the first underground Metro system on the Continent, constructed in 1894, the blue M3 line had been in operation only since the 1970s. As a result, the Ferenciek Square Station was sleek and modern looking, with spotless title floors and pristine, graffiti-free walls. Spencer fished a pale blue ticket (good for thirty days) out of her pocket and franked it in the machine in font of the nearest turnstile. A puddle formed beneath her as gravity did its beat to dry her.

Sopping wet, she slicked her hair back as she rode an escalator down to the platform, which was jammed with milling commuters. A good sign, she realized; the large crowd meant that she hadn't just missed an uptown train.

Idly scanning the soggy assemblage, she caught her breath in her throat as her gaze fell on an amazing-looking woman standing on the platform below, leaning back against a kiosk. A startling and spectacular vision, she was clad in glistening black leather from her neck down to her knee-high boots. A long black trench coat, belted at her waist, failed to conceal her lithe, athletic figure, while her porcelain features bore a timeless beauty and glamour. A curly crop of dark brown hair gave her a sexy electricity that made Spencer's pulse speed up. The woman looked out of place amidst the everyday hustle and bustle of the Metro station: an exotic apparition, wild, mysterious, enticing...

_Everything__ I'm not, _Spencer thought wryly. Absolutely riveted by this astonishing eyeful, she was unable to look away, even when the woman raised her head to stare back at her!

For an endless moment, their eyes met. Spencer found herself drowning in enigmatic chestnut-coloured pools that seemed to hold unfathomable depths far beyond her ability to probe or comprehend. The mystery woman returned her gaze, her eyes seeming to penetrate all the way to the back of Spencer's skull. The woman's frozen, neutral expression divulged little clue to what was going on behind that perfect face. Spencer found herself wishing that she wasn't looking quite so bedraggled at the moment.

The chestnut orbs examined her frankly, and just for a split second, Spencer thought she saw a glimmer of interest, mixed with perhaps a trace of ineffable sorrow and regret. Then, to both her relief and her disappointment, the woman looked away, choosing to glance up and down the length of the platform instead. _Who are you? _Spencer wondered, consumed by something more than mere curiosity. _Where did you come from? What are you looking for?_

The escalator carried her downwards, closer to the woman by the kiosk. Spencer swallowed hard, debating weather she had the nerve to say something to her. _Excuse me, miss, _she rehearsed mentally, _but I couldn't help gawking at you..._

Just as the moving stairs reached the bottom, however, and Spencer started to step onto the platform, a bright blue train came roaring into the station, accompanied by a gust of cool air and a deafening blast of noise. The train's sudden arrival startled Spencer, momentarily shattering the spell the bewitching stranger had cast over her, and when she turned to look again the woman in question , the blonde discovered she had vanished from sight completely.

"Damn" she muttered under her breath. The subway doors hissed open, and the impatient commuters surged toward the waiting train. Spencer expended a few more seconds searching for a glimpse of the leather-clad enchantress, then reluctantly headed for the train as well.

_Probably just as well_, she thought, utterly failing to convince herself. An amplified voice spoke over the station's loudspeakers, instructing the people on the platform to step aside and let the arriving passengers exit the train. _I'm running late for work as it is._

Hidden in the shadows beneath the escalator, Ashley watched the wide-eyed American youth turn towards the sleek blue train. For the second time in less than ten minutes , she chastised herself for letting the nameless human's striking good looks divert her from the mission. Still, she had to admit that her undead heart had skipped a beat when she saw the blonde coming down the escalator, even as her fascinated gaze had lingered on the blonde's beauty much longer than it should have. _I must be getting feeble-minded and girlish in my old age, _she thought archly, unable to shake the memory of the American's blue eyes.

Clay and Trix came down the escalator a few moments after the unlikely object of her attention. The odious sight and smell of the lycanthropes brought her back to business. She watched intently as the uncouth pair joined the horde descending on the newly arrived train. Farther down the platform, artfully concealed amidst the station's murkier nooks and crannies, Rigel assiduously kept his eyes on the lycans as well. He and Ashley exchanged a glance, then simultaneously slipped from their hiding places to trail after their detestable quarry.

Ashley was grateful for the backup when the two lycans split up, spreading out though the advancing throng like timber wolves converging on an unsuspecting deer. She signalled Rigel to take Clay, who was heading roughly in the other vampire's direction, while she stayed close to Trix. Nathaniel, she knew, was still aboveground, keeping watch over the station's entrances just in case an lycan reinforcements showed up unexpectedly.

_So far, so good, _she thought, maintaining a discreet distance from both lycans. The motion of the crowd carried them toward the open doors of the subway train, and Ashley wondered curiously where the clueless lycans were leading them. Perhaps all the way to the creatures' latest lair?

She glanced over at Clay, who was standing outside the train, about midway down the platform. To her concern, he suddenly halted in his tracks and sniffed the pungent air of the station. _Hell, _she thought, instantly on guard. _I don't like the looks of this._

Her hands crept toward the matching Berettas hidden under her trench coat, even as Clay spun about suddenly, catching a glimpse of Rigel. Panic flooded his dark mahogany face, and he reached beneath his own jacket and whipped out a modified Uzi. "BLOOOOOODS!" he shouted in a deep, basso profundo voice. Gunfire erupted from the muzzle of his submachine gun, turning the crowded Metro platform into a scene of utter panic.

The Uzi's harsh report echoed cacophonously within the subterranean confines of the subway station, all but drowning out the frightened shrieks of the terrified human commuters. Frantic men and women hit the deck or else stampeded for the nearest exit. Ashley and Rigel dived for cover, taking refuge behind adjacent concrete support columns as they swiftly drew their own firearms. Rigel was equipped with an MP5 submachine gun, while Ashley relied on her trusty Berettas.

Ignoring the fear-crazed humans, Clay swept the platform with a blistering hail of automatic weapons fire. Peering out form behind the concrete column, as the relentless fusillade chipped away at the white enamel titles covering the support pillar, Ashley observed that the lycan's chattering Uzi was firing a type of ammo she had never encountered before. The cascading bullets literally glowed with their own built-in illumination, shining so brightly that it actually hurt her eyes to look at them.

_What in the Elders' name..._? she thought in confusion. Her fingers squeezed the triggers of her Berettas, returning the lycan's fire with a barrage of silver bullets.

Outside the Metro Nathaniel heard the unmistakable clatter of gunfire, knowing his fellow Death Dealers would need a much-needed numerical advantage, he made his way, fast, towards the platform. _Stand fast! _he silently entreated Ashley and Rigel. _I'm on my way!_

The incandescent rounds ricocheted wildly about the underground platform. Glowing bullets took out many of the overhead lights, which exploded like pyrotechnic amusements, showering sparks onto the cement floor below. The remaining lights flickered fitfully, casting creeping shadows over the besieged station.

_What the hell?_ Spencer thought, suddenly finding herself stuck in the middle of a full-scale firefight. Along with several other fearful bystanders, she huddled behind an automated ticketing kiosk while the echoing explosions pounded against her eardrums, overpowering even the strident screams of the hysterical commuters. The acrid smell of cordite assailed her nostrils.

She couldn't believe what was happening. One minute, she was trudging toward the waiting subway, still half-looking for that breathtaking woman in the black leather, when unknown parties abruptly started shooting up the crowded platform. Doing her best to keep her head down, Spencer couldn't get a good look at who was doing the shooting, but her overwrought brain desperately tried to make sense of the situation. _Some kind of Russian mob thing? _She speculated. Downtown Pest wasn't exactly Hell's Kitchen, but organized crime had been thriving in the former Warsaw Pact nations ever since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Maybe this was a turf war between rival mobsters.

A teenage girl, maybe seventeen years old, made a break for the up escalator. She almost made it-before getting caught in a vicious cross fire. High-powered blasts tore into her upper leg, and she dropped to the floor like a brightly painted marionette whose strings had just been slashed by a razor. Blood spurted from beneath her miniskirt as she stared in shock at her perforated leg. From the bright red colour of blood, Spencer knew that the bullets had opened her femoral artery. She couldn't hear the girl gasping over the roar of the gunfire, but she saw the girl's chest heaving erratically as all the colour drained from her face.

_Screw it!_ Spencer thought. With no other choice, she bit down on her lip and darted out form behind the ticketing machines. Crouching as low as she could, she scurried though the line of fire like an army field medic. Bizarrely glowing bullets whizzed past her head, creating dancing blue spots at the periphery of her vision, but she kept on going until she reached the wounded teen, who was lying sprawled on the platform in a swiftly spreading puddle of her own blood.

Spencer dropped to her knees beside the teen and began feverishly applying pressure to the injured limb. Hot blood soaked through the knees of her pants, dispelling some of the chill left behind by the autumnal weather outside. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, giving her the energy she needed to help this girl. "You're going be all right." She assured her, raising her voice to be heard over the reverberating screams and gunfire. She struggled to make eye contact with the girl even as she kept pressing down on the wound with both hands. Sticky arterial blood seeped between her fingers.

To the blonde's dismay, the teen's violet eyes were already glazed and unfocused. Her face was pale, with a slight bluish tint, and her skin felt cool and clammy. _I'm losing her,_ Spencer realized, recognizing the telltale symptoms of hypovolemic shock. "No, no, no!" she blurted at the girl. "Don't close your eyes. Stay with me now." The teen's eyelids drooped alarmingly, so the blonde thrust her face at the girl. "Stay with—"

Another burst of automatic weapons fire rocked the platform, interrupting Spencer's desperate attempt to rouse the half-conscious girl. Heavily mascacred eyelashes fluttered weakly, then snapped awake at the booming sound of the guns. _That's it!_ Spencer thought, shielding the girl's ashen face with her own body. Every fresh blast made her cringe, expecting to feel bullets slam into her at any minute.

Was it just her imagination, or had she actually succeeded in slowing the girl's rapid blood loss? For a spilt second, she was mentally transported back to a lonely roadside in Ohio, watching another young woman slowly die right before her eyes. _Not again!_ She thought, feeling a familiar pain stab her sharply in the heart. _Hang in there,_ she urged the Hungarian girl, forcing the thought of that other woman out of her mind. _I'm not going to let you die. Even if it kills me..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

Across the platform, Ashley winced as Clay's gunfire chipped away at the concrete column protecting her. Bits of powdered stone pelted her face as another unnaturally radiant bullet missed her by centimetres. She angrily wiped the grit from her cheek with the back of her hand before firing around the corner of the pillar with a blazing Beretta.

She glanced to her left and saw Rigel similarly pinned behind another column father down the platform. A sturdy advertising kiosk loomed midway between them. Ashley tipped her head toward the adjacent structure and nodded at Rigel. He nodded back, understanding.

Firing continuously with both hands, she dived for the rear of the kiosk, as did Rigel, who met up with her behind a mounted poster for the Hungarian Ballet. All around them, luminous steel rounds slammed into the walls and ceiling of the Metro station, turning the polished tiles into an explosion of broken splinters and shards.

Ashley and Rigel hid behind the colourful kiosk, their backs pressed up against each other. "Whatever kind of ammo they're using," she exclaimed, her heated observation sounding like a whisper amidst the thunderous racket of the gun battle, "I've never seen it before!"

"Likewise," Rigel replied. Concern creased the smooth planes of his perpetually youthful features. As if ordinary ammo wasn't dangerous enough to their kind!

Ashley slammed a fresh magazine into her right-hand Beretta and risked a peek around the edge of the kiosk. To her surprise, she saw that same beautiful American youth tending to an injured human girl right in the middle of the platform. She raised an attentive eyebrow, impressed by the young woman's courage if not by her sense of self-preservation. _I've known vampires, _she thought, _who were not so brave amidst gunfire._

The tangy scent of the teen girl's spilled blood reached Ashley's nose, causing her month to water automatically. _None of that now_, she told herself firmly; the drinking of innocent blood had been strictly banned for centuries.

Her eyes widened in alarm as she spotted the smaller lycan, apparently overcome with blood lust, charging at the kneeling mortal from behind. Although Trix had not been reckless enough to shed his human form in so public a venue, his bestial nature was betrayed by his blood-streaked cobalt eyes, sharpened incisors, and clawlike fingernails. A white froth foamed at the corners of his month as he lunged for the human with outstretched claws!

Intent on his wounded charge, the compassionate American appeared oblivious to the berserk lycanthrope closing upon her. _Forget it,_ Ashley thought emphatically, unwilling to see the courageous youth butchered by the likes of Trix. She quickly took aim at the oncoming lycan and squeezed the trigger. _Eat silver, you stinking cur!_

BLAM! An argent bullet ripped into Trix's shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. Ashley smiled coldly, even as the engrossed American youth remained unaware of her bear brush with death and mutilation.

The doors of the parked subway train had remained open throughout the frenzied melee, perhaps in hopes of giving the endangered commuters on the platform an avenue to escape. Rebounding from his bullet-propelled fall, Trix took advantage of an open door to scramble onto the train itself, clutching his wounded shoulder.

The floor of the train exploded beneath his feet as Ashley's nonstop fire chased him. He dashed across the width of the subway car, barrelling into the sealed door at the opposite side of the corridor. Powerful fingers dug into the rubber-lined seam between the closed pneumatic doors, and he grunted in exertion as his superhuman sinews struggled to pry the doors open.

Ashley kept on firing, her unleashed bullets eating up the floor behind him. The train's unlucky passengers cowered beneath their seats, but Ashley squeezed tightly on the triggers of her Berettas, confident in her ability to hit only the hated target she was gunning for. She had no intention of letting the injured lycan escape with his life.

Growling savagely, Trix made one last ferocious effort, and the closed metal doors came apart with a whoosh of pressurized air. The lycan hurriedly threw himself through the gap, dropping onto the subway tracks on the other side of the train.

_Damnation! _Ashley cursed, irked by her quarry's last-minute escape. She moved to go after him, only to see Clay charging toward her from the northern end of the platform. His Uzi blazed volcanically, drawing her fire.

She ducked back behind the corner of the kiosk, unable to chase the smaller lycan as she would have preferred. _Very well, _she thought. Her upraised pistol was only centimetres from her face, filling her lungs with the intoxicating smell of gunpowder and hot metal. Adrenaline spiked the undead ichor in her veins. _I'll settle for the big door instead._

"Shit. Shit. Shit." Trix slumped against the wheels of the stalled train. His right shoulder burned where the vampire bitch had nailed him with her silver. Grimacing in agony, he thrust his fingers into the gasping wound, a task made all the more difficult by the fact that he was right-handed in his human form. The smell of his own blood enraged him as it streamed down his chest to puddle at his feet.

_Good-for-nothing bloods!_ He longed to transform, to revert to a more primal and powerful state, but that was impossible; only the oldest and most powerful of lycans could transform after being wounded by a silver weapon. Thanks to the bullet in his shoulder, Trix was trapped in human form until the metallic poison dissipation from his blood which could take hours—or even days.

His fingers burrowed painfully into the shredded meat and gristle, finally locating the bloodied remains of a single silver bullet. The flattened slug was slick and difficult to hold onto, and the hated metal burned his fingertips, but Trix gritted his teeth and violently wrenched the bullet from his shoulder. Steam rose from the fleshy pads of his fingers as they hissed and sizzled from contact with the silver. Snarling at the back of his throat, he hurled the captured slug as far away as possible, hearing it clatter upon the metal tracks several meters down the line.

"Son of a bitch!" he growled. Now he was pissed!

Trix licked his scorched fingers, then slammed a fresh magazine into his own gun, a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. He popped up behind the gap in the subway doors and fired through the train at the platform beyond.

His feral heart beat in exultation as he saw that, to the right side of the platform, Clay was already strafing the vampire's kiosk with automatic fury.

_Friggin' bloods!_ he raged, enthusiastically adding his own luminescent fire to Clay's. Aboard the train, lily-livered humans trembled and pissed themselves, but Trix reserved the entirety of his seething contempt for the vampires themselves. _We'll teach those arrogant leeches to mess with our clan!_

In a moment of prudence, some unseen human had turned off the escalators leading to and from the platform. _No matter, _Nathaniel thought, racing down the motionless steps at blinding speed. His long black hair whipped behind him as he ran. The platform below rang with the sound of frenetic gunfire. _And to think i was afraid of missing all the action!_

The lycans' guns assaulted the kiosk at right angles to each other, backing Ashley and Rigel into a single narrow corner behind the targeted structure, which was rapidly being ripped to shreds by the lycans' ceaseless fire. Their situation, she realized, was swiftly becoming untenable.

Despite her own dire predicament, thought, she couldn't help worrying about the safety of the heroic American. Was she still unharmed, or had both she and the injured girl already perished in the hostilities? _A pity our war had to endanger innocent humans,_ she thought with sincere regret.

Just in time, a vigorous volley of fresh gunfire targeted Clay, forcing the larger lycan to turn tail and seek the shelter of a nearby subway car. Ashley looked back over her shoulder to see Nathaniel descending the escalator, his trademark Walther pistols spitting out an unrelenting stream of silver bullets.

_Well done!_ she thought proudly, grateful for the timely intervention of the valiant Death Dealer. Nathaniel's fortuitous arrival was just what they needed to turn the tables on these revolting animals. _We have them outnumbered now!_

She and Rigel seized the opportunity to abandon the bullet-riddled kiosk, bolting across the platform to a less pulverized concrete pillar. She looked with concern for the beautiful good Samaritan and her injured charge, who were still dangerously out in the open. Amazingly, they were both still alive.

But although Clay had been driven off, his subhuman accomplice still lurked on the other side of the beleaguered train. The muzzle of his handgun flared repeatedly—BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!—and a burst of incandescent ammunition caught Rigel across the chest.

The reeling vampire stumbled and lurched sideways into a wall. The glowing bullets sliced though the strap of his camera, causing the compact digital device to go skittering across the concrete floor of the platform. Rigel staggered clumsily, fighting to stay on his feet. His once-seraphic countenance contorted with indescribable pain and suffering. As Ashley looked on in horror, rays of searing light erupted from his wounds, blazing forth from the jagged tears in his dark leather attire. The blinding effulgence burned through the vampire's transfixed body, incinerating him from the inside out!

Ashley felt the excruciating heat of the light upon her own ivory features. Aghast and astounded by what was happening to her friend, she tried to keep on watching, if only to be able to report back to her superiors on what she was witnessing, but the actinic glare grew so bright that she had to look away, crimson tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the underground station as the unnatural light flared up like a supernova before dying out.

Ashley opened her eyes just in time to see Clay's carbonized corpse hit the floor. Smoky fumes rose from the vampire's body, which burned and blackened beyond recognition. The charred remains looked as though Rigel had been left out in the sunlight to die.

_No! _Ashley thought in stunned disbelief. _This can't be happening!_ She had known and fought beside Rigel for years and years, yet the smoldering ruin before her eyes left no doubt that her ageless comrade had been eliminated forever.

An all-consuming wrath possessed her. She whirled around, her anguished heart screaming for retribution, and opened fire on Trix, who took another silver bullet in the shoulder, not two centimetres from where she had shot him the last time. _Does that hurt, you bastard?_ Ashley thought vindictively, savouring the agonized expression on the lycan's face. _I hope it burns like hell! _If only silver acted as quickly as the lycan's obscene new ammunition!

The craven lycan had clearly had enough. Relinquishing his position on the other side of the metallic blue subway car, he turned and galloped down the underground Metro tunnel. Ashley sneered at the lycan's cowardice; such craven behaviour was more like a jackal than a wolf.

_Run while you can,_ she taunted him silently. Despite the overwhelming thirst for vengeance engulfing her soul, Ashley retained the presence of mind to snatch up Rigel's fallen camera and quickly ejected its memory disk. Pocketing the disk, she discarded the camera before racing into the train after Trix. She charged down the center aisle of the car, running parallel to the lycan fleeing alongside the train. Through the window to her right, she could see Trix making a break for the dimly lit tunnel ahead. She was tempted to fire at him through the transparent glass window but feared that a stray ricochet might kill or maim one of the train's human passengers. Mortals were strictly noncombat-ants in the war she fought, and Ashley had always striven to show any such mercy to the despicable lycanthrope outside the train.

The memory of Rigel's smoking remains added wings to her heels as she sped through one car after another, sprinting like leather-clad lightning past the shell-shocked humans cowering in their seats. She squeezed the grips of her Beretta so tightly that her fingers sank into the handle, leaving impressions in its high-impact polymer frame.

She reached the end of the rear car and bared her fangs as Trix came zipping around the back of the train and took off down the center of the tracks. Perhaps he thought he could elude Ashley amidst the stygian recesses of the murky tunnel? Fat chance. Ashley didn't even slow down before diving headfirst though the train's rear window. Glass exploded onto the tracks as she came soaring out of the subway car, the back of her jet-black trench coat flaring out behind her like the wings of some enormous vampire bat.

She hit the ground like an Olympic-class acrobat, executing a flawless diving roll before springing up onto her feet. Gun in hand, she pursued the lycan with all her preternatural strength and speed, plunging into the forbidding blackness of the tunnel without a second's hesitation. _I'll get you, you murdering animal, if i have to follow you all the way to Perdition!_

Back on the platform, near the middle of the train, Nathaniel was running low on ammo. He lurked under the cover of the escalator as he and Clay vehemently exchanged fire. The barbaric lycan had taken refuge in a crowded subway car, from which he vainly sought to nail Nathaniel with one of his phosphorescent rounds. The combat-savvy vampire carefully kept his head; having seen what the glowing bullets had done to Rigel, he was in no hurry to experience their incendiary effect himself. _I still can't believe that Rigel is actually gone, _he brooded darkly. _It happened so fast!_

Whistling silver and radiant particles of light zipped past each other, carving out a no-man's land between the escalator and the stalled subway car. Clay fired his Uzi around the door of the car, until the spewing muzzle of his gun suddenly fell silent. Nathaniel saw the lycan scowl angrily at his weapon and realized that the Uzi must have exhausted its ammunition. _And not too soon,_ the vampire thought appreciatively. His own pistols were out of ammo as well. He groped in the pockets of his trench coat for another magazine, only to come up empty. "Bugger!" he swore under his breath, even as he spied Clay fleeting toward the back of the train.

Lacking either the time or the ability to reload, Nathaniel tossed his pistol aside and ran toward the next car down, hopping to cut Clay off. _These lycans will pay for what they did to Rigel, _he vowed. _I swear it upon my eternal life!_

The snarling lycan rushed past the petrified passengers huddled together on the floor. He yanked open the door between the cars and threw himself across the gap above the coupling, provoking ear-splitting screams from the startled humans in the next car, who suddenly found themselves confronted with a wide-eyed thug brandishing a smoking submachine gun.

Racing diagonally across the platform, Nathaniel glimpsed Clay through the windows of the train. There was no way that he could beat the lycan to the next open door- way, so, instead, raising his arms to protect his head, he hurled himself through one of the car's side windows. Glass shattered with a stupendous crash as the vampire came zooming like a meteor into the car, tackling Clay. His head-long momentum threw the lycan into the opposite window cracking the heavy glass.

Nathaniel's surprise attack infuriated the ambushed lycan, eating away his flimsy pretense at humanity. Shaking off the bone-numbing impact, Clay glared at the Death Dealer with inhuman, cobalt-blue eyes. He bared his fangs, exposing a mouthful of serrated canines and incisors. An atavistic growl escaped his lips.

The semi-transformed lycanthrope grabbed Nathaniel with both hands and flung the vampire down the aisle toward the front of the train. Against his will, Nathaniel found himself sliding backward across the floor, but he quickly halted his retreat and sprang back onto his feet. The coloured irises of his eyes turned a bright blue. His own fangs snapped together angrily, and his outstretched fingers sported razor-sharp nails. He was more than ready to engage Clay hand-to-hand if necessary, but the lycan had other ideas; turning his back on Nathaniel, Clay made a breakneck dash for the rear of the train.

_Not so fast,_ the vampire thought, giving chase. Pouring on the steam, he pursued the lycan through car after car, slowly gaining on the fleeing gunman. Nathaniel's legs were a blur of superhuman speed, hurling him after his considerably less than human quarry.

Within seconds, they had reached the final car, where Nathaniel observed the telltale signs of some earlier struggle. Bullet holes riddled the floor, and the window at the far end of the car, mounted halfway up the painted steel exit, had been smashed to pieces. Nathaniel briefly wondered what had become of Ashley and the other lycan, only to see Clay closing fast on the exit in question, less than forty meters ahead of him.

Tapping hidden reserves of speed and energy, the determined vampire leaped forward and tackled Clay once more. His talons grabbed on tightly to the lycan scum as they slammed into the rear exit, their combined momentum blowing the heavy steel door off its hinges.

Locked together in a death grip, Clay and Nathaniel came flying out of the train. They crashed down onto the tracks, skidding across the rusty iron rails. The hard landing broke them apart, and they rolled away from each other before scrambling back onto their feet.

Vampire and lycan faced off at the edge of a darkened tunnel. Flickering fluorescent lights created a strobe effect that only added to the bizarre, nightmarish ambience of the hellish drama playing out behind the ravaged subway train. Predator versus predator, the two deadly night creatures circled each other warily, flaunting demonic fangs and claws. The vampire's eerier blue eyes blaze with inhuman malice, while Clay glowered back at him with eyes as cold and impenetrable as a shark's-or a wolf's.

Nathaniel suddenly felt terribly exposed and vulnerable. A tremor of apprehension shook his ageless bones as, in the pulsating glare of the erratic light, his lycan adversary began to change.

The grotesque transformation was visible only in quick, fragmentary glimpses. Wiry black hairs sprouting from Clay's face, scalp, and hands. A lupine snout protruding from flat human countenance. Gaping jaws packed with gleaming yellow fangs. Foam dripping from an immense, hungry maw. Thatches of bristling gray-black fur jutting through torn and shredded clothing. Jagged claws tearing free of leather boots. Human ears growing tufted and pointed at the tips. Cobalt eyes peering down as the inhuman shape-shifter grew a full half meter in height, his massive shoulders expanding as well. Upraised claws the size of streak knives...

Nathaniel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly as dry as the Valley of the Kings, where he had once daddled in archaeology beside Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon. He promptly realized that he had committed a grave tactical error in confronting the desperate lycan away from the inhibiting gaze of the mortals. As long as Clay had remained in his human form, Nathaniel had been more than a match for the lycan where hand-to-hand combat was concerned, but only the most powerful of vampire Elders could hope to survive unarmed against a fully transformed werewolf.

Six centuries of immortality passed before his eyes as he backed away from the towering beast. Growling horrifically, the werewolf fell upon Nathaniel like some ravening prehistoric monster. Jagged claws sliced through his leather garb as though it were tissue paper, rending the undead flesh beneath. The doomed vampire struggled helplessly against the huge, voracious creature, but the hell-beast was too big, too strong. Powerful jaws closed on Nathaniel's throat, crushing the vampire's neck between rows of ivory fangs. A horrendous scream rang out, and cool vampire blood gushed upon the tracks.

In his last instants, Nathaniel prayed that Ashley would not meet the same awful fate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Run all you can!_ Ashley thought fiercely as she chased Trix through the winding subway tunnel, taking care to avoid the electrified third rail. The dim lighting posed little difficulty—vampires have excellent night vision—yet the determined Death Dealer would have charged headlong into utter blackness if necessary. _You're not getting away from me!_

Rigel's fiery death still burned brightly in her memory, stoking her ever-smoldering hatred of the lycan breed to an even more consuming blaze. She held on tightly to her Beretta, aching for a chance to strafe her comrade's killer with red-hot silver.

The fleeting lycan disappeared around a bend in the track, but Ashley was only a few seconds behind him. Rounding the curve herself, she was surprised to discover that Trix had seemingly vanished into thin air. _What?_ she wondered in confusion, slowing to a halt between the iron rails. _Where the hell...?_

Vampire eyes searched the floor of the tunnel, swiftly discerning a trail of muddy bootprints and scattered droplets of blood leading to a shallow alcove on the right-hand side of the underground tube. Undaunted by thickly gathered shadows filling the inauspicious nook, she stepped toward the empty recess, her gaze glued to the ground in search of further evidence of Trix's present whereabouts. _He can't have gone far, _she assured herself, determined to see the lycanthrope dead by dawn.

A gust of hot air, accompanied by a distant roar, interrupted her search. _What the devil?_ Ashley whirled around toward the sudden noise, then cautiously peeked around a bend in the tunnel. Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw the northbound train, hightailing it out of the battle-scarred station, whip around the corner. Glaring headlights blinded her like malevolent sunbeams. _Move! _her brain shouted at her. _Now!_

She jumped backwards into the concrete alcove, flattening herself against the inner all of the niche. She turned her face away from the oncoming train, just as the Metro carrier zoomed by her, its metallic epidermis passing only centimetres away from her exposed white cheek. The booming thunder of the cars riding madly over the rails drowned out the world, while a violent surge of wind caused her trench coat to flap wildly. Flickering lights strobed from the speeding cars; looking down, Ashley saw the inconstant glare reflected by the glistening blood and bootprints next to a rusty drainage grate. _Aha! _she thought, despite the clamorous passage of the train. _Heading downward, are we?_

The blue M3 train took forever to traverse this particular stretch of track, but Ashley finally watched its luminous red taillight recede into the distance, heading north. Letting out a sigh of relief, she dropped to her knees beside the metal grating, which was wet and slimy with mold. She yanked up the grate with both hands, then paused momentarily to peer down into the uncovered pit.

The floor of the drainage tunnel, running beneath the Metro line, was hidden by vigorously coursing rainwater, but Ashley judged that it was hardly deep enough to conceal Trix in his entirety or to have carried him away to a watery doom. _If he can brave the flood, so can I, _she resolved, thankful that, contrary to myth, vampires had no genuine aversion to running water.

She dropped down into the dark, crumbling tunnel, landing ankle-deep in the turbid stream. Any muddy bootprints had been washed away by the rain, so she hesitated, uncertain which way to turn. She sniffed the air, catching a whiff of freshly spilled blood to her right; Trix's wounded shoulder, she surmised, unhealed thanks to the toxic presence of her silver bullet.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. Unlike human blood, which invariably attracted her despite her best intentions, the un-clean blood of a lycan held no allure; indeed, it was considered anathema to her kind even to think of partaking of a lycan's tainted essence. Despite the fangs projecting from her gums, she fully intended to slay Trix the proper way: with cleansing fire and silver.

Her gun raised and ready, she ventured cautiously in the direction of the blood scent, only to be greeted by the flare of a gun muzzle and the clattering report of a semi-automatic pistol. Like enraged fireflies, three incandescent bullets punched through her coat, barely missing her leather-corseted ribs.

_Careful, _she cautioned herself. _Don't let your anger at Rigel's death make you careless. He wouldn't want that._

She caught a glimpse of Trix at the far end of the drainage tunnel and dive-rolled out of his line of fire, blasting away with her own gun even as she smoothly tumbled head over cramped confines of the narrow tunnel.

Trix missed. She didn't.

The lycan toppled over, splashing down onto the submerged floor of the tunnel. His right hand still wrapped around the cold steel grip of his pistol, he flopped spasmodically upon his back like a fish out of water. Hot steam rose from the bullet holes sprouted across his chest.

Ashley wasted no time finishing him off. Hissing like an incensed panther, she drove her boot down onto the supine lycan's neck and mercilessly emptied the remainder of her silver ammo into his chest. The faces of the little girls, the old man, and the butchered maiden once again flashed across her mind, this time joined by the searing image of Rigel bleeding shafts of deadly light. _Die!_ she thought passionately, as she always did when she had a lycan at her mercy. _Die, you bloodthirsty animal!_

Trix's body rocked beneath the explosive force of the gunshots, not going limp until Ashley's Beretta clicked upon an empty cartridge. She stopped back, contemplating the lycan's devastated corpse with cold satisfaction. Her gaze fell on the modified Desert Eagle still locked in the dead lycan's grip. _Sean will want to inspect this new weapon, _she realized. Thrusting the Beretta back into it holster, she bent and pried the pistol from Trix's stiffening hand. The painful radiance of the lambent rounds forced her to wince and look away as she methodically ejected the ammo clip.

An eerie silence fell over the lonely tunnel, broken only by the sibilant gurgle of the draining water. Then a deafening roar came from the subway tracks above. Another speeding train, Ashley wondered anxiously, or something far more dangerous?

No longer trapped in the puny shape of a man, Clay exulted in his regained strength and speed. There were certain advantages to a human form, granted, such as an opposable thumb and the ability to blend undetected amidst the gullible mortal herd, but when he became a wolf, he became his truer, more primeval self. Guns and knives were all very well and good, but nothing equalled the sheer unbridled exhilaration of tearing apart a foe with your own teeth and claws!

The blood of his latest prey still stained his matted black fur, while bits of undead flesh and gristle lodge between his serrated yellow fangs. The flesh of the male vampire had only whetted his appetite, though; he wanted the female too. _Two down_, he thought, eagerly recalling how the first vamp had been burned alive by Trix's ultraviolet ammo. _One more to go._

His Lupine snout sniffed the air, readily determining which way Trix and the vampire bitch had gone. He hoped that his fellow lycan had not already killed the bloodsucking leech on his own; he was looking forward to rending the flesh from her shapely body, then cracking her bones and eating the marrow.

At the back of Clay's mind, his human half remembered that he still had a vital mission to complete, one interrupted by the vampires' unwanted appearance on the scene, but the wolf was in ascendance now, and long-term plans would have to wait. He had tasted blood and wanted more.

_I'll find that miserable human later,_ he promised himself before bounding down the tunnel after his prey.

His muzzle twitched in anticipation of fresh meat as he quickly located the open grate and dropped down into the waiting drainage tunnel. Stalking forward on two legs, the transformed werewolf stooped beneath the low ceiling of the mouldering conduit, his tufted ears brushing against the crumbling brickwork.

Gunshot blared loudly ahead of him, then abruptly fell silent. The acrid stench of gunpowder reached his canine nose. Had Trix eliminated the she-vampire, he wondered, or the other way around? Wading through the turbid water, he advanced toward the sound of the fleeting battle, his knife-edged claws extended before him.

The fact that he smelled only hot lycan blood, not the tepid red ichor that flowed through a vampire's veins, gave him cause for concern, which was promptly validated by the sight of the female vampire bending how over the fallen remains of his fellow lycanthrope. Tainted by the vampire's cursed silver, Trix had died in his human form, unable to change shape as Clay had.

The crouching vampire had her back to Clay, apparently unaware of his approach. Fleshy black lips peeled back hungrily, exposing the werewolf's bloodstained incisors as he crept forward, eager to avenge the death of his pack member. Sinewy muscles tensed in expectation, and saliva dripped from the corners of his month. The vampire was easy prey...

With a ferocious roar, he pounced at the vampire, who surprised him by twisting around at superhuman speed and hurling four coinlike silver disks at the charging werewolf. Razor-shape blades snapped out of the disks, turning them into deadly silver throwing stars.

Shards of jagged pain mixed with feral rage as the flying shuriken sliced into the werewolf's massive torso. He reared backward, growling in fury, his claws slashing fruitlessly at the air. _Goddamn blood!_ he howled inside, the angry curse emerging as an inarticulate snarl. _You'll pay for that, you sneaky bitch!_ But the vampire was already gone.

Her perforated trench coat flapped behind her as Ashley ran like hell away from the injured werewolf. She had no illusions that a handful of throwing stars would be enough to bring down a fully transformed alpha-male like Clay. With the last of her ammunition buried deeply in the corpse of the smaller lycan, discretion was clearly the better part of valor.

Killing Clay would have to wait for another night. _At least I avenged Rigel, _she thought, her boots splashing through the muddy rainwater. She only hoped that Nathaniel had survived as well.

Ashley ran for her life, undead veins surging with adrenaline. Listening carefully for any signs of pursuit, she was surprised to hear a burst of frenzied growls and wild human cheers coming from somewhere nearby. _What in the world?_ she thought.

Darting around a corner, she spotted rays of filtered light shining up through a rusted metal grate, not unlike the one she had used to enter the decaying drainage system. The boisterous roars and shouts seemed to be coming from the same direction as the unknown light.

Curious despite her present jeopardy, Ashley warily stepped toward the grate, trying to peer downward through the moldy iron slats. Before she could see anything, however, she heard heavy paws tramping noisily through the tunnel behind her, accompanied by a rumbling growl that was growing louder and more inescapable by the second. Clay was getting closer.

_Damn,_ she thought, realizing that there was no time to investigate whatever was creating all that commotion on the other side of the metal grating. Escaping Clay had to be her first and only priority.

_But I'll be back,_ she vowed, running like mad away from the oncoming werewolf. Monstrous claws scraped against the floor of the tunnel behind her as she searched for the quickest available route back to the surface. _I'm going to find out everything that's hiding down here, assuming i ever get out of these tunnels alive!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The abandoned tunnel was packed with lycans, both male and female. Hooting and hollering, they crowded the underground ruins, which were lit by the erratic light od crude torches wedged here and there into the crumbling brick walls. Water dripped from the ceiling, and the musky air was pungent with the smell of smoke, sweat, pheromones, and blood. The greasy, unwashed clothing of the lycans added to the general stench. Anthropomorphic shadows danced wildly on the cobweb-covered walls, and gnawed white bones, human and otherwise, littered the rocky floor. Rats scuttled around the edges of the tunnel, feeding on the lycans' grisly leavings. Empty bottles of beer and Tokay clinked loudly as they rolled between the revelers' feet. The entire scene had the riotous, unruly frenzy of a Hell's Angels rally or perhaps an eighteenth-century bacchanal.

Animalistic growls and snarls came from the center of the commotion, as the riled lycans clustered in a ring around an irresistible entertainment, rudely jostling each other for a better view. Two gigantic male werewolves were locked in fierce combat, snapping and clawing as they circled each other like enraged pit bulls. Tufts of gray-black fur went flying as the frothing beasts traded gouging slashes and bites, lunging savagely at each other, to the tumultuous delight of the crowd. Fresh blood splattered the thrilled faces of the lycan spectators, who were dwarfed by the seven-foot-tall werewolves. The fur-crested skulls of the creatures towered above the heads of the mostly humanoid audience. "Go get 'im!" a jubilant lycan shouted, although it was unclear which monstrous man-beast she was cheering for. "Tear 'im apart!"

"That's it!" another onlooker called out loudly stomping his boots on the floor. A plump black rat scurried for safety. "Don't back off! Go for his throat!"

_Disgraceful,_Glen thought, observing the sorry spectacle. With a weary sigh, he raised his shotgun. _BLAM!_ The resounding blast of the rifle cut through the echoing yells and growls like a silver blade slicing through a werewolf's heart. The obstreperous mob fell silent, and even the two battling lycanthropes halted their brutal clash. Startled eyes, both human and lupine, turned toward the solitary figure standing at the rear of the dilapidated tunnel. Although deceptively slight in appearance, Glen carried himself with the carriage and bearing of a true leader. The unquestioned master of the lycan horde, he had an air of polished cultivation that his uncouth subjects sorely lacked. He had gray eyes, short blonde hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked to be in his early thirties, although his true origins were lost in the impenetrable mists of history. He was also very much alive, despite his supposed death nearly six centuries ago. His dark brown attire was also significantly more expensive and stylish than the cheap, thrift-store wear that draped his subjects. The tail of his oiled leather coat flapped behind him like a monarch's robes. His gloves and boots were equally slick and polished. A crest-shaped pendant hung from a chain around his neck. The gleaming medallion reflected the torchlight, throwing dazzling beams about the dimly lit catacomb.

Cowed lycans edged nervously from his path as he strode confidently into the crowd, a smoking shotgun resting lightly upon his shoulder. His disapproving eyes raked across the faces of his gathered minions, who shrank back in apprehension. They bowed their heads in submission to their leader.

"You're acting like a pack of rabid hounds," he said disdainfully, speaking Hungarian with a crisp American accent. "And that, gentlemen, simply will not do. Not if you expect to defeat the vampires on their own ground. Not if you expect to survive at all." He looked over the drooping heads of the blood-spattered spectators to where the two mighty hell-beasts had been contending. "Pierce! Taylor!" The crowd parted entirely to reveal two human gladiators, their naked bodies slick with blood and perspiration.

Nasty cuts and scratches marred their heaving chests as they panted in exhaustion. Both men looked as though they had just run a marathon through a field of thorny rose bushes, but their eyes still glowed with feral glee and rapacity. _They should save their predatory zeal for our foes,_ Glen thought, appalled at such a pointless waste of blood and energy. And the truly sad thing was, these were two of his more reliable lieutenants. Cold gray eyes regarded the brawling pair with open contempt. Pierce, the taller of the two, was a brawny Caucasian whose uncombed, shoulder-length black hair made him look like a comic-book barbarian. Taylor, his partner, was also white, with reddish-brown hair and whiskers. They stood stiffly at attention, their heads hunched below their shoulders and their arms and fingers extended at their sides, as though their hands still sported dagger-sized talons.

Glen shook his head. _You can take the man out of the wolf,_ he thought philosophically, _but you can't take the wolf out of the man._ "Put some clothes on, will you?"

The Ferenciek Square subway station, recently the site of so much gunfire and bloodshed, was now swarming with Hungarian police officers and forensic examiners. Like their American counterparts, the local cops wore navy-blue uniforms and stony, hard-boiled expressions. Spencer watched a pair of forensic assistants examine the charred remains of what looked like a burn victim. _ Funny,_ she thought, blinking in confusion, _I don't remember a fire breaking out…_

Pale-faced and shaken, Spencer leaned against a chipped and bullet-riddled support column as a chunky police officer, who had identified himself as Sergeant Hunyadi, took her statement. The dazed young American's pants and T-shirt were still soaked through with blood. Amazingly, none of it was her own.

"Tattoos, scars, any other identifying marks?" the cop asked, hoping for a description of the assailants. Spencer shook her head. "No, like I said, it happened too fast." Her gaze drifted over the officer's shoulder, to where a couple of paramedics were strapping the injured Hungarian girl to a gurney. The unlucky teen had lost a lot of blood, but it looked as though she was probably going to make it. The blonde breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that she had managed to keep the girl alive until help could get to her. _No wonder I can't remember what the shooters, looked like,_ she thought. _I was too busy dealing with a severed artery!_

Hunyadi nodded, jotting something down in his notebook. Behind him, the medics started wheeling the girl toward the handicapped elevator. "Doctor!" one of the EMTs called out to Spencer. "If you want a ride, you better hurry!"The cop glanced down at the hospital ID badge pinned to the young American's jacket. "Sorry," Spencer said with a shrug. "Gotta run."

_Thank God!__ s_he thought, anxious to leave the violated subway station. She shouted back over her shoulder as she hurried after the medics. "I'll give you a call if I remember anything useful!" As if there was any way she could ever make sense of what had happened here tonight.

The mansion, long known as Ordoghaz ("Devil's House"), was located about an hour north of downtown Budapest, outside the picturesque little town of Szentendre on the western bank of the Danube. Pounding rain still streamed down the tinted windshield of Ashley's Jaguar XJR as she neared the intimidating cast-iron gates of Raife's vast estate. Mounted security cameras scoped her out thoroughly before the spike-crowned gates swung open automatically. Despite the slippery conditions, the Jag raced down the long paved driveway as quickly as its driver dared. Sean and the others needed to know what had transpired in the city as soon as possible, although Ashley was not looking forward to returning without either Rigel, whose blackened corpse she had been forced to leave behind, or Nathaniel, who was missing and presumed dead as well. _Two Death Dealers laid low in a single night,_ she pondered in dismay. _Aiden will have to take this seriously… I hope._

Ordoghaz loomed before her, a sprawling Gothic edifice dating back to the days when feudal warlords ruled Hungary with fists of iron. Jagged spires and battlements rose atop its looming stone walls, while majestic columns and pointed arches adorned its brooding facade. The lambent glow of candlelight could be glimpsed through the mansion's narrow lancet windows, suggesting that Ordoghaz's lively nocturnal activities were still going strong. A circular fountain, situated across the drive from the wide arched doorway, sprayed a plume of churning white water into the cold night air. _Home sweet home,_ Ashley thought without much enthusiasm. Parking right outside the main entrance, she stormed up the marble steps and through the heavy oaken doors. Fledgling vampires, waiting at the door, offered to take her coat and gear, but she brushed past them, intent on getting the word to those who mattered. The disk from Rigel's camera rested securely in her pocket, holding vital photographic evidence of his killers. The foyer was as impressive as the mansion's exterior. Priceless tapestries and oil paintings hung upon lustrous oak-panelled walls. Marble tiles stretched across the floor to where the sweeping main stairway rose majestically toward the upper reaches of Ordoghaz. An immense crystal chandelier glittered above the stately entry hall, welcoming Ashley in from the night. Brushing aside a hanging tapestry, she stepped briskly into the grand salon, which was decorated in tastefully subdued tones of black and red and rich walnut brown. Lighted candelabras were mounted along the wall and hanging from the ceiling, shining down on a rose-colored wool carpet bearing a floral design. Ornamental brass lamps with opaque black shades rested upon antique mahogany end tables, beneath the elaborately carved wooden moldings running along the borders of the ceiling. Heavy velvet curtains of deepest burgundy were draped over the windows, keeping out any prying eyes whose owners might have made it past the gates outside. A flock of well-dressed vampires loitered in these luxurious surroundings, lounging indolently on plush velvet divans or mingling in the corners, exchanging carefree giggles and gossip. The trill of high-pitched laughter mixed with the gentle clink of crystal goblets filled with an enticingly crimson beverage. Pearly-white fangs peeked from the jaded smiles of elegant vampire men and women, wearing the latest fashions from Chanel and Armani.

Ashley's face hardened. She had little patience with such as these. Although vampires to be sure, these preening sybarites were no Death Dealers, merely undead socialites and libertines, more interested in their own epicurean pleasures than in the never-ending battle against the hated lycanthropes. _ Don't they know there's a war on?_ she thought for maybe the millionth time. The decadent atmosphere was redolent of expensive perfume and steaming plasma, but, despite the numerous bodies crowded into the salon, the temperature remained pleasantly cool; vampires were cold-blooded by nature. Her sudden arrival attracted little notice. A few curious heads swung toward her, examining the drenched Death Dealer through bored and disinterested eyes, before returning to more engaging amusements.

She barely caused a ripple in the flow of sophisticated chitchat and witty repartee working its way around the lavishly appointed chamber. _No matter,_ Ashley thought. These were not the vampires she needed to speak to. Her eyes scanned the room, hoping to locate Aiden himself, but the manor's surrogate master was nowhere to be seen. A bitter smile reached her lips. If Aiden was not here, presiding over the salon's festivities, then she knew where he had to be…

Not for the first time, Aiden thanked the dark gods below that, contrary to myth and folklore, vampires were perfectly capable of admiring their reflections in the mirror. He posed bare-chested before the trifold mirror in his sumptuous private suite, which had once belonged to Raife himself. The dressing room itself was the size of a small apartment and was lavishly furnished in showy pieces of superlative quality and design. An armoire of gargantuan proportions held the regent's considerable wardrobe, while an intricate Persian rug cushioned his neatly pedicured feet. A custom-made Tiffany lamp shone overhead, allowing him a surfeit of light in which to admire himself. The standing mirror offered three equally flattering views of the vampire lord's Adonis-like physique. A mane of shoulder-length black locks gave him the romantic dash of Heathcliff or Byron, while his well-built chest and biceps were impressive even by vampire standards. Piercing green eyes looked back at him from the center mirror, liking what they saw. Only the ruddy tint of his flesh, pinker than was normal for a vampire, hinted at centuries of overindulgence. _Not bad for seven hundred plus,_ he noted with approval.

Aiden had been a gentleman of leisure since at least the Renaissance…

Two attractive vampire women, each less than a mortal lifetime old and hence little more than servant wenches, attended to him diligently, seemingly just as enthralled by his physical perfection and considerable manliness as he. They knelt beside him as they gently eased a pair of tailored silk trousers over first one foot, then the other. Their cool, eager fingers traced the rippling contours of his sculpted musculature as they raised the trousers up his legs, then proceeded slowly to button the front of the pants from the bottom up, one delicious centimetre at a time. Trading a glance, they giggled like naughty schoolgirls. Aiden basked in the servant girls' adoration. _Let them have their fun, _he thought magnanimously. Why shouldn't they feel privileged to wait upon the person of the lord of the manor? Was he not the preeminent vampire on the Continent? And soon to be so much more.

The double doors of his suite banged open, jarring him out of his blissful reverie. He turned to see Ashley, of all people, barging into the privacy of his chambers. The Death Dealer's dark brown hair was soaked in a most unflattering manner; nevertheless, Aiden felt a surge of lust at the sight of the striking female vampire. Too bad that, judging from her severe expression, Ashley's mood tonight was something less than amorous. _So what else is new?_ he thought sourly.

The servant girls backed away instinctively as Ashley strode across the room. Dripping water onto his imported Persian carpet, she reached beneath her coat and slammed a heavy object down onto the lacquered top of Aiden's antique walnut desk. He observed, with some distaste, that the metallic item was a firearm of some sort. Aiden didn't see anything particularly noteworthy about the gun, but Ashley evidently felt otherwise. Intense brown eyes locked onto his. "We have a serious problem," she stated.

The dojo was located on the top floor of the mansion, in a converted attic loft. Unlike the opulent decor found elsewhere in Ordoghaz, the training area was Spartan in appearance, dedicated exclusively to the art of war. Sparring mats, along with a soundproofed firing range, occupied most of the spacious garret, while the dense stone walls supported rack after rack of exotic stabbing weapons and firearms. Silver glinted from every lethal edge and surface.

Besides her own private quarters, the well-armed attic was one of the few places within the mansion where Ashley felt truly comfortable. It was a place for warriors. "I'll definitely have to run a few tests," Sean stated, holding up a glowing bullet with a pair of forceps. Tinted safety glasses allowed him to examine the luminous projectile close up. "But it's definitely an irradiated fluid of some sort." Concern and curiosity alike registered on the sharp, intelligent features of the Death Dealers' daunting commander and weapons master. An imposing vampire of African descent, Sean was dressed entirely in black. His leather fighting gear matched Ashley's, minus the streaks of blood and muck. Seam was centuries old, his origins shrouded in mystery. Some said that he had once fought beside the great Shaka himself, while others speculated that the enigmatic Death Dealer had been trained as an adept in the martial arts before being initiated into vampirism. All Ashley knew for sure—all she needed to know—was that Sean's commitment to the war was as unshakable as her own. Unlike the immortal dilettantes Ashley had encountered downstairs in the salon, Sean was all business.

He set the bullet down on his workbench, next to the disassembled pieces of Trix's pistol. Ashley raised a hand to shield her eyes from the stinging radiance of the captured bullet. "Ultraviolet ammunition," she marvelled aloud. "Daylight, harnessed as a weapon," Sean concurred, removing his tinted glasses. "And from what you've described, extremely effective." Ashley winced inwardly at the thought of Rigel's fiery demise. She still could see the corrosive beams of light exploding from his ravaged body. _At least he didn't suffer long,_ she thought by way of bitter solace. _He perished within seconds. _

Aiden, on the other hand, could not have been less interested or impressed. "You expect me to believe that a mangy animal came up with a bullet specifically engineered to kill vampires?" Looking distinctly bored, he stood alongside the workbench with Sean and Ashley. He wore a dark cotton tunic with a brocade collar beneath a smart black jacket. Polished gemstones flashed from the silver settings of his rings. As usual, his blasé attitude dismayed Ashley. She had long suspected that Aiden had once served as a Death Dealer, only to advance his own position within the coven; in a hierarchy based largely on seniority, a reputation as a war hero provided an efficient shortcut to the upper echelons of vampire society.

Slaying the infamous Glen had made Aiden's name, and, at least as far as Ashley was concerned, he had been coasting on that triumph ever since. To her perpetual dismay, the vampire regent had zero patience for anything that interfered with his hedonistic amusements, which clearly included this impromptu gathering. A few meters away, lounging against an antique weapons cabinet packed with silver daggers and scimitars, two of Aiden's nubile handmaidens dutifully tittered at his remarks. The servant girls' presence at the debriefing irked Ashley; she had nothing against the frivolous _filles de chambre,_ who could hardly be blamed for their immaturity, but they had no business at a serious war conference. Surely Aiden could have done without his worshipers for at least the length of the meeting?

"No, I'm betting it's military," Sean replied, addressing Aiden's sarcastic query. He nodded at the glowing UV projectile. "Some kind of high-tech tracer round."

Ashley found herself growing increasingly impatient. "I don't care where they got these things," she declared, not wanting to lose sight of the larger issue. "Rigel is dead, and Nathaniel could still be out there. We should gather the Death Dealers and head back down there in force." It wasn't even midnight yet, she observed. There were still plenty of hours before sunrise.

"Out of the question," Aiden said bluntly. "Not now. Not for a random incursion." He shook his head at the sheer absurdity of the notion. "The Awakening is only a few days off, and this house is in a state of unrest as it is."

Ashley couldn't believe her ears. "Random? They opened fire on us in full view of the public." That alone, she reflected, violated the unspoken rules governing the long twilight struggle between the vampires and the lycans. "And from the commotion I heard down in that tunnel there—"

"You said yourself that you didn't actually see anything," Aiden interrupted her. He crossed his arms over his chest, challenging her to contradict him. Ashley took a deep breath, making an effort to hold onto her temper. Like it or not, Raife had placed Aiden in charge of the coven, on the basis of his historic victory in the mountains of Moldavia; this was no time for them to squabble like rival siblings. "I know what I heard," she insisted coolly, "and I know what my gut tells me. And I'm warning you that there could be dozens of lycans down there in the subway tunnels. Who knows, maybe even hundreds."

A hush fell over the attic at Ashley's ominous pronouncement. Even the two giggling servant girls shut up and paid attention, appalled at the very notion of a lycan horde dwelling practically underneath their noses. Aiden shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before assuming a look of amused disbelief. "We've hunted them to the brink of extinction," he stated flatly. A condescending grin slid across his face.

Even Sean seemed to doubt Ashley's claims. "Aiden's right," he assured her. "There hasn't been a den of that magnitude for centuries… not since the days of Glen."

_Or so we've always believed,_ Ashley thought gloomily. "I know that, Sean." She couldn't fault him for his scepticism. "But I'd rather have you prove me wrong by checking it out."

Sean nodded, seeing her point. He turned to Aiden, seeking the other vampire's okay. Aiden, in turn, glanced impatiently at his watch. He heaved a weary sigh. "Very well," he conceded. "Have your men tighten up security around here. I'll have Soren assemble a search team."

Soren was Aiden's personal pit bull, reporting directly to him. Ashley had always considered Soren more of a thug than a soldier, lacking the discipline and commitment of a true Death Dealer. The simmering rivalry between the Dealers and Soren's goon squad had endured almost as long as the war itself.

"I want to lead the team myself," she declared. "Absolutely not," Aiden said. "Soren will handle it." Ashley looked to Sean, hoping that the seasoned commander would insist that a Death Dealer take charge of the investigation, but the African vampire declined to challenge Aiden's decree. _He must think this not worth fighting over,_ she realized, disappointed by Sean's apparent lack of faith in her instincts.

Perhaps emboldened by Sean's silence, Aiden couldn't resist gloating a bit. "Hundreds, really," he scoffed, shaking his head in his most patronizing manner. Ashley stood her ground. "_Raife_ would have believed me," she announced icily, before turning her back on Aiden and storming out the door. _If only Raife were truly among us once more!_ she thought anxiously, her fixed expression concealing a growing sense of apprehension. _How can it be that our safety and future depend on an insufferable egotist like Aiden?_

The target of her contempt was rendered speechless by Ashley's brazen impertinence. _How dare she walk out on me like this?_ Aiden thought, seething with indignation. _And to invoke the name of Raife, no less! I am the lord of the manor now, not our slumbering sire! _His face flushed with blood not his own, Aiden glared at Ashley's retreating form. Sean diplomatically refrained from commenting on the female Death Dealer's abrupt departure; nonetheless, Adien felt both slighted and humiliated. His brain searched frantically for some withering witticism to help him save face. To his surprise, one of the hovering servant girls came slinking up to him, laying a hand gently on his arm. "I would never dream of treating you like that," she cooed seductively, brushing a finger up and down his arm, an obvious invitation for anything he might desire. Aiden glanced down at the clinging vampiress. In fact, he had all but forgotten about the two underlings' presence, but now he took a closer look at the simpering maidservant at his side. She was a slim, brown hair, with brown eyes and a sylphlike figure that was scarcely hidden by her sequined black frock and long black gloves. A lacy black choker encircled her neck, offering veiled glimpses of her jugular. _What is her name again?_ Aiden pondered absently; he had dim memories of initiating her at a nightclub in Piccadilly less than thirty years ago. _Ah, yes… Madison ._She pressed her tender form against him, basking in his attention. Her adoring eyes promised him absolute devotion and obedience, in both body and soul. "Of course you wouldn't," he informed her bluntly, his dismissive tone striking the lovestruck vampiress like a slap across her face. _To think that she has the audacity to offer me the blind allegiance that is already mine by right!_ His wounded pride took some comfort in the crushed and chastened expression on the silly tart's face. _At least I can still put someone in her place around here,_ he thought bitterly.

He coolly detached her arm from his. "Now, run along and make sure that Ashley is dressed and ready for the arrival of our very important guests." Madison crept away meekly, choking back a heartbroken sob. Aiden watched her slip submissively down the stairs, accompanied by her less presumptuous sister in servitude. _If only Ashley could be so obliging,_ he thought wistfully. _In every respect._


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six**_

Hidden away several stories below the dojo, in the mansion's deepest subbasement, the viewing room was, appropriately enough, quiet as a tomb. Marble benches lined the narrow chamber, facing what appeared to be a blank stone wall. A single large mirror adorned the polished granite. The high vaulted ceiling gave the room the feel of some somber Gothic cathedral.

Ashley shivered as she entered the chamber. By design, the air-conditioned viewing room was kept at a temperature uncomfortably cool even for the undead. Her footsteps echoed hollowly in the sepulchral hush as she strolled up to the mirror and stared pensively at her reflection. Her expressionless face belied the turbulent thoughts and anxieties roiling inside her. _Everything is happening too fast,_ she worried. _Two vampires dead, on the very eve of the Awakening…_

An electronic buzz greeted her arrival, and the seemingly opaque mirror instantly turned transparent, revealing a security booth on the other side of the glass. A single vampire, whose name was Duncan, manned the booth. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Ashley nodded in assent. Knowing why she was there, Duncan hit a button on his control panel. The remainder of the "stone" wall split in half, sliding away to expose a thick Plexiglas window underneath. Ashley stepped forward and peered through the glass at the shadowy chamber beyond. Darkly lit and cavernous, the crypt was the slowly beating heart of Ordoghaz. Polished granite steps led down into a sunken area that was easily visible from the viewing room. At the center of this lower tier, housed within a concentric pattern of interwoven Celtic circles, were three shining bronze hatches embedded in the floor. Each circular hatch had been ornately engraved with a single letter: C for _Christine__,_ A for _Arthur, _R for Raife _._Ashley stared at the latter hatch with anguished eyes. She leaned against the Plexiglas barrier separating her from her sire's tomb. Her cool breath steamed the even more frigid glass. _How I wish I could awaken you, my lord,_ she thought forlornly. _I am much in need of your strength and wisdom. We all are._

The lengthy corridor was lined with marble busts, commemorating many of the coven's greatest warriors and leaders. This effort to immortalize the great and near great was a tad superfluous, given that the individuals being honoured were already blessed with eternal life, but even vampires can have egos. And hurt feelings.

Madison stormed down the empty hallway, biting down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood. The other servant girl, Sherry, had scurried away on another errand, but Madison barely noticed her associate's departure. Her bruised heart still ached from Aiden's casual disregard. His harsh, indifferent tone rang in her ears. _How could he just dismiss me like that?_ she agonized. _Doesn't he know that I would do anything for him? _If she were honest with herself, Madison would have to admit that her attraction to Aiden was only partly inspired by the aristocratic vampire's undeniable good looks and charisma. His lofty position in the coven appealed to her just as much as his irresistible physique and features.

As a relative newcomer to the coven, less than a mortal lifetime old, Madison was stuck at the bottom of the vampire pecking order, and she could think of no faster way to climb the ladder than by attaching herself to the most powerful _nosferatu_ in all of Europe. Although born human, unlike the pure-blooded Elders, Aiden was still a vampire to be reckoned with, and Madison had spent many a long day, sequestered away from the sun in the modest servants' quarters she shared with four or five other vampire newbies, fantasizing about reigning over the manor as Aiden's royal consort. _But all he cares about is that coldhearted killing machine, Ashley! _A bust of Aiden caught her eye, his regal profile captured in chiselled stone. She swerved purposely to one side, knocking the bust off its pedestal. The sculpted head crashed to the floor, exploding into a zillion pieces. Snow-white shards of broken marble went skittering everywhere. _Not so handsome now, are you, my lord? _

A moment of vindictive glee gave way to alarm as she realized exactly what she had done. She stopped in her tracks and looked back at the frightful mess on the floor. In a panic, she scampered back and dropped to her knees beside the remains of the bust. Looking about her furtively, she hastily began sweeping the incriminating fragments behind the concealing folds of a large hanging tapestry. Crimson tears leaked from her eyes as her anguished soul rebelled at the cruel injustice of it all. _Why Ashley?_ she wondered bitterly, torn between despair and indignation. _Why not me?_

Ashley was still gazing sadly at Raife's tomb when Madison slipped into the viewing room behind her. _One of Aiden's adoring acolytes,_ the older vampiress noted distantly. She didn't bother turning around. "It's a waste of time, you know," the servant girl said a few moments later, after waiting in vain for Ashley to acknowledge her presence. "What is?" Ashley asked. She remained facing the crypt, her back to the lissom brunette vampiress, whose name was Madison if she recalled correctly.

Summoning up her nerve, Madison crept up next to the preoccupied warrior woman. She motioned casually at the metal hatch marking Raife's secluded resting place. "I seriously doubt Raife wants you freezing your ass in here, staring at his tomb for hours on end." For the first time, Ashley turned to look directly at the other woman. "No," she agreed vehemently. "He'd want the Death Dealers out there right now, scouring every square centimetre of this city." She clenched her fists at her sides, giving vent to her frustrations. "Damn Aiden! He's a bureaucrat, not a warrior."

"What's the difference?" Madison asked cheekily. "He'd still be a prick." The girl's flippancy caught Ashley by surprise, forcing her to take a closer look at this puzzling baby vampire. _Perhaps she has a bit more brains and independence than I first assumed?_

"But then again," Madison said, flashing a wicked grin as she leaned languidly against the thick Plexiglas window, "He is quite the devilishly handsome prick." _There's no accounting for taste,_ Ashley thought, mentally lowering her estimation of Madison by a notch. "Trust me," she said drily. "He's all yours." A pained expression passed over the brunette vampire's face, indicating that Ashley had touched a sore spot, but Madison quickly managed a forced smile. "Come on," she said lightly, "we need to get you ready." Ashley blinked in confusion. She had absolutely no idea what Madison was referring to. "For what?" The petite maidservant rolled her eyes, as if she didn't believe Ashley could be so clueless. "The party. Christine's envoy will be here any time now.

_Oh, that,_ Ashley thought without much enthusiasm. Her gaze drifted to the bronze hatch marking Christine's tomb, which was unoccupied. In theory, the female Elder would take her place in the crypt upon Arthur's Awakening, but Ashley would have preferred a very different transition of power. _If only we could skip ahead a hundred years and wake up Raife instead!_

Rats and spiders scurried away from the cooling body, frightened by the alarming sound of something large and powerful advancing through the moldy drainage tunnel. Although the rain momentarily had ceased falling on the city streets above, oily puddles remained scattered around the sewer as evidence of the deluge. Massive paws splashed through the stagnant pools of rainwater, mixed with the sound of bony claws scraping against the brick-lined floor of the tunnel. Trickles of light filtered down through rusty grates in the ceiling, throwing the shadow of an enormous beast upon rough, uneven ground. Bones snapped and twisted noisily, further disturbing the verminous denizens of the sewers, as a grotesque metamorphosis took place in the murky shadows. Dense fur rustled scratchily as it receded into an almost hairless brown hide. Feral snarls evolved into recognizably human grunts and moans. Man-shaped once more, Clay staggered through the dank and decaying tunnel. His naked body was streaked with blood, and four jagged silver throwing stars were lodged painfully in his chest, sending searing jolts through his body with every step he took. He reached instinctively to remove the stars, only to yank back his hand as the cursed metal singed his fingertips. _Damn silver!_ he fumed silently, licking his scalded fingers. _Vein-sucking vampire bitch! _Newly human eyes adjusted to the gloom. Clay panted loudly like a dog, exhausted by both his injuries and the awful strain of his transformation. He had tried to catch up with the slinky blood who had killed Trix, but her fucking _shuriken_ had slowed him down, allowing the bloodsucking tramp to escape. Now there was nothing left to do but collect Trix's body and report back to Glen, who was not going to be happy to hear that the bloods had interfered with the mission. For a second, Clay worried about the larger implications of the vampires' surprise appearance tonight. Just another random hunting expedition, or did the goddamn bloods know about Glen's interest in that mortal, Spencer Carlin? _No,_ he decided quickly. _That's impossible. The bloods have no idea what we're about. Our mole would have told us if they did. _Confident that tonight's confrontation was just an inconvenient setback and not any sort of preemptive strike on the part of the vampires, Clay felt more positive about the future. There would be time enough to track down Carlin again. Right now, he had another chore to do. He lurched down the tunnel, occasionally reaching out with his hands to steady himself. Slime coated his palms and oozed down his arms as he returned to the blood-spattered stretch of tunnel where he had found the despicable vampiress bending over the lifeless form of his fallen pack brother. Trix was right where Clay had left him, lying sprawled on his back in a puddle of gory muck, his human face frozen in agony. A trail of bloody entrance wounds stretched across Trix's chest, leaving little doubt about his cause of death. The lycan's own gun was missing, Clay noticed glumly. He threw back his head and howled in rage and lamentation. Trix was only the latest pack member to fall prey to the bloods and their filthy silver. Clay couldn't wait to catch up with that dark-haired she-vamp again—and make her pay for Trix's untimely demise. He stared down at the bullet-riddled corpse with blood in his eyes. _Could be worse,_ he consoled himself. Blood oozing from his chest, the silver-scarred lycanthrope bent over and, grunting in pain, hefted the dead man up into his arms. _At least we killed two of the bloods tonight, twice the number of wolves claimed by the vampire bitch._

He could still taste the tangy meat of that careless male blood between his jaws, while their new ultraviolet ammunition had performed exactly as promised, roasting the other male vamp from the inside out. _Two of them to one of us,_ he reflected savagely. _Not a bad outcome. _He just hoped Glen felt the same way.

Struggling under the weight of his doleful burden, Clay retraced his steps through the ancient sewer system. Heading deeper. 

Ashley's room at the mansion was almost as Spartan as the dojo upstairs. Although her elevated status in the coven entitled her to a roomy suite of her own, complete with a balcony looking out over the front lawn, the actual furnishings were on the sparse side. A modern-looking steel desk gave her a place to work, while a richly upholstered divan allowed her to rest her head when she felt like taking a break. A portrait of a human family, consisting of a mother and father, two daughters, and a pair of twin girls, occupied a position of honour upon the desk. The framed photo served as both keepsake and inspiration, reminding Ashley of why she hated the werewolves in the first place. As if she could ever forget.

Moonlight entered her office through the balcony window, casting pale blue shadows onto the stark white carpet covering the floor. The ceaseless rain spattered against the window panes. Ashley sat at her desk, staring intently at the illuminated screen of her laptop, which now held the disk from Rigel's digital camera. Still clad in her fighting leathers, she clicked rapidly through the surveillance photos Rigel had taken not long before his shocking demise. Her lips peeled away from her fangs, and she hissed venomously at the sight of the two murderous lycans in their street clothes. _If only I could have exterminated both of you,_ she thought, gripped by an insatiable hatred that knew no relief; it would take more than the blood of just a single lycan to avenge the death of a Death Dealer.

Madison passed behind her, holding up an elegant dress. The turquoise gown, a hand-beaded silk georgette imported directly from Paris, had been fitted to Ashley's exact measurements, which conveniently had remained unchanged for generations. The eager young maidservant had followed Ashley back to her quarters, apparently at Aiden's instructions.

Ashley wished that Aiden were as concerned about the lycans' suspicious activities as he was about tonight's big reception. The baby vampiress strolled up to a chrome-accented mirror mounted on a stark white wall. She posed before the mirror, holding the clingy embroidered gown in front of her. "Oooh, yes," Madison said girlishly. "You should definitely wear this one. It's perfect." She did a graceful twirl before the mirror, then added under her breath, "Maybe too perfect."

Even concentrating on the digitized photos, Ashley couldn't miss the undercurrent of envy in the younger vampire's voice. Madison was decades away, in both power and prestige, from rating such posh attire. The servant girl's own flimsy little frock was considerably cheaper and more tawdry, making Madison look more like a London showgirl than an undead aristocrat. The girl's jealousy was the least of Ashley's concerns, however, as the zealous Death Dealer searched the digital images for some clue to the lycans' mission in the city. _Where had they intended to take the Metro to?_ she wondered, having no doubt that the roaming lycans were up to no good. _There's something afoot._

A head of sopping blonde hair, attached to an attractively guileless face, caught her eye. _That's odd,_ she thought, recognizing the good-looking American she had noticed back in Ferenciek Square; to her surprise, the beautiful youth showed up in more than a few of the photos earlier that night. Although often out of focus or consigned to the fringes of the photo, the nameless American was nonetheless a continuing presence in the images flashing across her screen. _A coincidence,_ Ashley wondered, _or something more? _Closing her eyes, she searched her own memories.

In her mind, she saw once again the young woman hurrying through the soaking downpour, then riding the crowded escalator down to the subway platform, followed moments later, she now realized, by Clay and Trix, stalking through the throng of commuters with malignant purpose, like hungry wolves tracking their next meal. She remembered the smaller lycan charging at the young American with outstretched claws….Her dark eyes snapped open. "They were after you," she murmured, suddenly comprehending. _But why?_

Gripped by a renewed sense of urgency, she feverishly worked her laptop's keyboard and mouse. Quickly selecting the best photo of the unnamed pedestrian, she enlarged the image and adjusted the focus. The youth's beautiful features came into sharp relief, confirming that she was indeed the same individual Ashley had noticed back in the city. Some sort of ID badge was clipped to the blonde jacket, and she zoomed in on the small laminated rectangle, which turned out to be a hospital employee badge bearing the name "Spencer Carlin."Ashley leaned back in her chair, staring speculatively into the pale blue eyes of the mysterious stranger. _Who are you, Spencer Carlin?_ she pondered, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. _And why were those lycans after you?_

She had lost track of Carlin once the shooting started but doubted that the blonde had ended up in the subway tunnels with her and Clay. Ashley remembered the gratifying sound of her silver throwing stars smacking into the werewolf's hairy chest. Chances were, the injured beast had been forced to abandon his prey, at least for a time. _Probably off licking his wounds somewhere,_ she guessed. _But for how long?_

Although she couldn't have explained why, Ashley knew that it was vitally important that she locate Spencer Carlin before Clay and his lycan compatriots did. Spencer meant more than just fresh meat to those wolves.

"Mmm, she's cute," Madison commented, peeking over Ashley's shoulder. Ashley had briefly forgotten that the servant girl was still in the room. "For a human."

"Who's cute?" a third voice asked. Both Ashley and Madison looked up to see Aiden, resplendent in a black Armani suit, standing in the doorway. An irked, petulant expression compromised his dashing appearance. For herself, Ashley suppressed a flare of irritation at the intrusion; Aiden hadn't felt it necessary to knock first. Madison, on the other hand, immediately went into humble servant mode. Lowering her eyes, she bowed demurely and shuffled out of the room with a minimum of fuss, ducking beneath Aiden's arm as she passed through the door into the hallway outside, leaving Ashley alone with Aiden.

Without waiting for an invitation, he sauntered into Ashley's private quarters, his hands clasped behind his back. He strolled over to the balcony window and peered out into the stormy night. "Need I remind you," he said peevishly, "that we're expecting important guests?"

"No," Ashley answered archly. "Madison's done that at least twenty times in the past hour."Aiden turned away from the window, flashing her a wounded look. "Then why haven't you slipped into something more befitting?" He glanced at the empty silk gown, which Madison had left draped on the divan. "You know I was planning for you to be at my side this evening."

Ashley could not think of a less appealing prospect, even if she didn't have more important matters to attend to. "I'm not in the mood," she declared. "Take Madison. She's just dying to be at your side."Aiden grinned, evidently amused by the servant girl's hopeless infatuation. He walked over to where Ashley was sitting, then leaned down toward her, bringing his ruddy face much too close for her liking. "I'm sure she is," he whispered, "but everyone knows it's you I desire." _So what else is new?_ Ashley thought, weary beyond measure of Aiden's advances. They had played this scene far too many times in the past. _You'd think that after all these years, he'd take the hint._

His breath, hot and reeking of plasma, was unpleasantly warm upon her cheek. He moved to kiss her, but she deftly edged away from him at the last minute, a trick she had sadly had cause to perfect over the decades. Aiden bristled at her rebuff, stiffly raising himself to his full height and throwing back his leonine black mane. Scowling, he swept a disdainful eye over her muddy boots and leathers, still besmirched by grimy souvenirs from Budapest's moldering sewer system. "If you ask me, you take this entire warrior business far too seriously." He glanced at the framed family portrait resting on her desk. "You can't undo the past, no matter how many lycans you kill." His callous gaze left slimy, imaginary tracks across the precious portrait. "You do realize this, don't you?" Ashley shot him a warning look. He was coming dangerously close to trespassing upon sacred ground. Perhaps realizing that he had gone too far, he backed off a bit.

He smiled amiably, as if to remove the sting from his sarcastic query. "And besides," he continued, taking a less confrontational tack, "what's the use of being immortal if you deny yourself the simple pleasures of life?"

_Hard to enjoy those pleasures,_ she reflected mordantly, _while a lycan is tearing out your throat and making a feast of your intestines._ She took a deep breath, not wanting to re-fight old battles. _Maybe I should make the most of Aiden's presence, while I actually have his attention. _She pointed at the enhanced photo on the computer screen. "Do you see this human?" Now it was Aiden's turn to sigh impatiently. He took a moment to inspect his well-manicured nails, which were apparently of more interest to him than the last moments of two Death Dealers. "What of her?"

"I can't be positive," she began, "but I'm beginning to think that the lycans—"Aiden cut her off as the sudden glow of headlights flashed across the window. Ashley realized that Soren had arrived with the visiting dignitaries from the New World Coven. _Damn,_ she thought. Their guests' timing could not have been worse. _ Just when I was about to tell Aiden my theory! _Aiden beamed happily, his truculent mood instantly lifted. "Now, please, put on something absolutely stunning, and be quick about it." His chest expanded beneath his elegant evening wear, like a rooster strutting in a hen yard. "I have a glorious evening planned. You'll see."He headed for the exit, but Ashley had not yet given up on the idea of sharing her concerns regarding the lycans. For better or for worse, he was the designated leader of the coven, and he needed to hear this.

"Aiden, this is serious," she called after him. "I think the enemy was following her."

He paused in the doorway and looked back at her with a puzzled look on his face, as if he'd just heard a bad joke whose punchline he didn't quite understand. "That's absurd," he said. "Other than for food, why would lycans stalk a mere human?"


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven**_

Muffled groans and whimpers escaped from the gagged mouths of the two captive humans. Strung up like sides of beef, and stripped to the waist, the men hung limply from a metal bar running the length of the abandoned subway station. Nylon webbing stretched across their mouths, while their mortal flesh was battered and bruised. Singe paid no attention to the men's incoherent bleatings. They were just test animals, after all; he was interested in their blood chemistry, not their conversation.

The derelict Metro station had been converted into a makeshift laboratory and infirmary. Test tubes, beakers, retorts, and other chemical apparatus were arranged on crude benches fashioned of splintered plywood and salvaged metal struts. Grungy plastic sheets dangled from the ceiling, dividing the chamber into separate compartments. Jury-rigged fluorescent lights provided just enough illumination to allow Singe to get on with his work. The dark, dingy locale was somewhat less than completely sterile, the lycan scientist acknowledged, but what could you do? Hiding out underground had its disadvantages.

Photos, maps, and scribbled notes were plastered all over the cracked tile walls. Dog-eared pages bore long lists of names, each appellation meticulously scratched out. At the center of the collage of papers was an elaborate family tree headed by a single name written in large block letters: "CARLIN." It may or may not have been of interest to the two trussed-up humans that their names and faces were among those displayed on the cluttered walls. Under the circumstances, Singe rather doubted that his two unlucky specimens were much concerned with the finer points of their ancestry. _Too bad,_ he reflected. _It's a fascinating story. _

A weather-faced lycan wearing a stained brown lab coat, Singe had a receding hairline, a wrinkled brow, and a sly, foxlike expression. He calmly fitted an empty syringe with a twenty-three-gauge hypodermic needle, then approached the mortal he'd designated Subject B. The human's eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the massive needle, and his stifled cries took on a shriller tone. He thrashed helplessly within his restraints, unable to free himself. Singe slunk behind the terrified specimen and waited quietly for the human to abandon his futile efforts. Within moments, the exhausted mortal gave up his struggles and slumped with his bonds, surrendering to the inevitable. Singe raised the syringe and nonchalantly jabbed it into the specimen's jugular vein. Subject B writhed in agony. A muffled shriek came through his gag, and his tortured veins stood out like vines of clinging ivy.

"Come on, stop whining," Singe said impatiently. He was hardly known for his soothing bedside manner. An Austrian accent gave away his nationality. "It can't be that bad." He tugged back on the plunger, and the thick syringe filled with dark venous blood.

He waited until he had several cc's of the vital fluid, then abruptly withdrew the needle from the specimen's throat. Blood continued to stream from the site of the venipuncture, so Singe quickly slapped a bandage over the wound, just in case he needed to keep this specimen alive. An identical bandage already graced the throat of the other specimen, a.k.a. Subject A.

Leaving the trembling human behind, he crossed the floor of the infirmary to a roughhewn counter, where he coolly and efficiently squirted the contents of the syringe into a pre-prepared glass beaker labelled B. Shrewd brown eyes examined the beaker, eager to see how this subject's blood reacted to the catalyst. An electronic timer ticked off the seconds. _A pity I can't report my findings to any of the established medical journals,_ he reflected.

Singe had been a prominent biochemist in his native Austria before being recruited into the pack by Glen himself, who had offered the dying scientist immortality in exchange for his loyalty and genius. _But I suppose wartime always imposes an element of secrecy._

A door at the rear of the station slammed open, and Glen swept into the laboratory, accompanied by a palpable aura of strength and authority. His glossy brown coat swept the floor. He did not waste time with pleasantries. "Any progress?" he asked. Singe dipped his head in deference to his pack leader. He opened his mouth to reply, only to be preempted by the sharp beep of yet another electronic timer. _Ah, perfect timing!_ he thought with a smile. "Let's find out."He turned his attention to a different beaker, this one labelled A. He gave it a gentle swish, to mix the contents thoroughly, then watched in disappointment as the crimson solution turned completely black."Negative," he announced sadly.

_Again._Glen frowned, clearly unhappy with the results of the experiment. Singe understood, however, that science was a matter of trial and error. _Sooner or later, we're bound to locate just the right specimen._ He thrilled in anticipation of that glorious day, when they finally would gain the means to dispose of their vampire cousins once and for all. But not today, it seemed. A philosophical expression creased his vulpine features as Singe trudged over to one of the lengthy lists of names posted to the walls. With a sigh of weary resignation, he scratched out the name of Subject A: "JAMES T. CARLIN." 

Spencer Carlin read the faded printing on the door of her locker at Karolyi Hospital. A wrinkled set of puke-green scrubs hung inside the locker as Spencer clanged the metal door shut. Yawning, she pulled a plain black T-shirt over her head, getting ready to head home at last.

It was five-thirty in the morning. Nearly nine hours had passed since the shoot-out in the subway station, and the blood on her street clothes had completely dried, but Spencer still felt shell-shocked and on edge.

"Heading home?" Spencer turned to find her colleague, Adam Lockwood, standing behind her. A lanky man with short black hair, the other American resident was in his mid-twenties, but heavy-duty fatigue made him look older. His horn-rimmed glasses failed to conceal the dark, puffy circles shadowing his eyes. A stethoscope hung around his neck, and a pair of metal hemostats peeked from the corner of his rumpled white lab coat, as he sipped on his ninth or tenth cup of coffee.

"Yeah," Spencer answered. "Nicholas gave me a few hours off." Adam nodded sympathetically, and Spencer wondered if she sounded half as wiped out as she felt.

_Probably,_ she thought. "By the way," Adam added, "he said you did a terrific job tonight with that girl." Spencer managed a grim smile before grabbing her wind-breaker and shuffling wearily toward the exit. She couldn't wait to get back to her apartment; with luck, she'd be in bed before the sun came up. But there was somewhere else she needed to visit first.

Moments later, she was in the Intensive Care Unit, staring through a large glass window at the injured girl from the subway. The Hungarian teenager was fresh out of surgery, unconscious and on life support. Spencer felt a flare of anger on the girl's behalf. The poor kid had done nothing to deserve getting caught in that crossfire. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. _Like Carmen,_ she thought bleakly. She gazed at the injured girl. An electronic monitor, displaying illuminated green wave forms, kept watch over her blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate. Bags of whole blood flowed down IV tubing to replace the blood she had shed beneath Ferenciek Square. The surgeons had stabilized her condition, at least. With luck, she'd make it.

_This city is going straight to hell,_she thought glumly. 

Hell, in fact, was several meters beneath Budapest, in a vast subterranean bunker system built during the Second World War. The cavernous excavation once had been used as a storehouse but had been forgotten long since and allowed to fall into jumbled disrepair. Chunks of rubble were strewn across the floor of the bunker, amidst filmy pools of stagnant water. Rusted chains dangled from the vaulted ceiling high overhead, scraping against the mangled remains of dilapidated metal catwalks. Spiders, cockroaches, and other vermin infested every corner of the forgotten sanctuary, scuttling along the walls, yet the hangar-sized enclosure remained curiously free of rats or mice; even the hungriest rodent knew better than to venture into this man-made purgatory.

Now employed as rudimentary hovels and barracks, the decaying bomb shelters teemed with predatory life. Flickering lights shone through cracked and sooty windows. Humanoid lycans went about their business, while other pack members, who preferred their canine form, lounged amid the scattered debris like junkyard dogs. Bestial blue eyes glowed from the shadows. Water dripped from the leaky ceiling, the constant tiny splashes echoing off the crumbling, mildewed walls. The fetid air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, both human and lupine, but despite the sizable population inhabiting the dismal bunker, not a single campfire burned. On two legs or four, lycans liked their meat raw and bloody.

Beyond the huge central chamber, a dark and twisted maze of war-torn passageways, gloomy chambers, barred windows, and shattered porcelain tiles extended through the ruins of the old bunker system, like an expressionist lunatic asylum designed and built by the inmates themselves.

Naked and bloody, Clay came staggering through one of these tenebrous corridors. He stumbled beneath the weight of Trix's bullet-filled body, wincing in pain from the shining metal stars embedded in his own lacerated chest. He cursed the bloods in general and that star-throwing vampire bitch in particular with every agonizing step. _Their time is coming,_ he remembered, drawing strength from grisly imaginings of the carnage in store. _Just two more nights, then the stinking vampires will get what's coming to them! Glen has it all planned…_

At long last, after what felt like an endless, arduous trek through the underworld, he made his way to the crudely constructed infirmary where he found both Glen and Singe. A pair of dead humans, their throats cleanly ripped out, still hung from the subway station's soot-stained ceiling. From their lifeless state, Clay guessed that these latest experimental subjects had proven just as unsatisfactory as the many others before them, which only made Clay all the more upset and embarrassed about letting that American medical student get away.

_Damn bloods!_ he cursed again. _It was all their fault! _He dumped Trix's bloody corpse onto an empty metal exam table, then looked over at Glen and Singe. Pain and exhaustion were written all over his face, but he knew that Glen would want his report before he could even think of getting rest or medical assistance.

"We were ambushed," he said tersely, leaning against the metal table for support. His deep voice rumbled like a kettle drum. "Death Dealers, three of them. We killed two, but one got away. A female."

Glen greeted this news with a stern, inscrutable expression. "And the candidate?" Clay lowered his head. If he'd had a tail, he would have tucked it between his legs. "We lost her," he admitted. Glen expelled a slow, exasperated breath. Clenching his fists at his sides, he turned to stare morosely out the grease-smeared windows. "Must I do everything myself?" he muttered under his breath. Clay considered replying, then thought better of it. _Better to redeem myself through action, not words,_ he decided, vowing not to let Spencer Carlin—or any other future candidates—escape him again. _And heaven help any sun-shirking vampire who gets in my way!_

The body on the table attracted Singe's attention. "Look at this mess," he said, _tsk-tsking_ at the gory bullet holes desecrating Trix's chest. "AG rounds. High content," Clay supplied. "Kept him from making the change." The Austrian scientist didn't appear too broken up by Trix's violent demise. He grabbed a pair of stainless-steel forceps and began rooting around in the dead lycan's gaping chest wounds. Clay recoiled from the squishy noises made by the doctor's ungentle explorations, but within moments, Singe had extracted the mushroom-shaped remains of a shiny silver bullet. "No use in digging out the rest," he declared. Taking pains not to touch the toxic slug himself, the scientist dropped the squashed bullet onto a blood-stained metal tray. "Silver's penetrated his organs. Regeneration's impossible at this point."

Clay had figured as much. He knew a dead lycan when he smelled one. _I owe you, bitch,_ he thought, picturing the female Death Dealer in his mind. _ You and the rest of your kind. _Having written off Trix, Singe cast an appraising eye on Clay himself. "Ah, but there's still hope for you, my friend." He approached Clay, inspecting the larger lycan's injuries. The silver points of the _shuriken_ jutted from Clay's dark skin. "So let's take a closer look at these nasty little stickers, shall we?"

He traded in his now bloody forceps for a black steel hex wrench and took hold of one of the throwing stars in Clay's broad, hairless chest. The wounded lycan tensed in anticipation of the pain to come. "Relax," Singe told him, sliding the wrench into a depression and slowly applying pressure. He turned the wrench, and Clay winced in agony. He bit down hard, clenching his jaws to keep from screaming, but a tortured grunt still escaped him. Undeterred by the other lycan's obvious discomfort, Singe used the wrench to activate the star's arming mechanism. _Click._ The points of the star retracted back into the silver disk, and Singe slowly worked the unlocked weapon out of Clay's flesh, millimetre by excruciating millimetre. "See," the doctor announced, holding up the bloody silver coin. "Not so bad."

_Easy for you to say, Clay_ thought, glowering at the beaming lycan scientist. The extraction process had hurt like blazes, and there were still three more stars to go!

Several paces away, Glen finally emerged from his brooding silence. He turned and locked eyes with Clay. "The vampires didn't realize you were following a human… did they, Clay?" The urgency in his voice cut through the pain of Clay's ongoing ordeal. "No," the bleeding lycan replied, even as Singe slid the hex wrench into the next star. "Aaarrgh!" _Click._ The second star was pulled from his chest. Clay gasped and swallowed the pain before speaking again. "I mean, I don't think so."

Glen pounced on the uncertainty in his voice. He advanced on Clay, extracting information the same way Singe was extracting the poisonous stars. "You don't think, or you don't know?" Singe inserted the wrench into the third star, and it took all of Clay's self-control not to flinch. "I'm not sure," he blurted, on the cusp of another starburst of pain. "Rrgggg!" _Click._ The star released its locking blades but refused to let go of Clay's throbbing muscle and bone. Singe had to wiggle the star back and forth for a while, which hurt like hell, before the silver disk finally came free. "Ooh, that one was really in there," Singe commented breezily, dropping it into the waste bin along with the rest of the silver detritus.

Clay noticed that garbage bag was marked with the universal symbol for biohazardous waste; as far as lycans were concerned, silver was as toxic as plutonium. _Tell me about it,_ he thought irritably. The beginnings of a growl rumbled at the back of his throat. His hands cramped into claws, the jagged nails extending imperceptibly. An electronic timer beeped, calling Singe away from him and granting Clay a momentary respite. The Austrian scientist hastily inspected a row of glass beakers, all of which contained an opaque black fluid. Clay had spent enough time around the laboratory to know that these were not the results Singe and Glen were hoping for.

"Negative, the lot," Singe said, shaking his head. "We're rapidly running out of candidates." He walked over to the family tree on the wall and drew a bright red line under a single name located near the bottom of the complicated genealogical chart.

"So I really must insist we have a look at this Spencer Carlin." Glen gave Clay a scathing look, then stalked wordlessly out of the infirmary. Singe turned toward Clay, an amused expression upon his wizened face. "Congratulations. I think you just made the top of his shit list. After the vampires, of course."

_It wasn't my fault!_ Clay thought indignantly. He wasn't sure what angered him more, Glen's unspoken scorn or the doctor's mockery. Infuriated, he didn't wait for Singe to apply the wrench to the fourth and final throwing star. Snarling like a rabid hound, he yanked the offending missile from his flesh with his bare hands, ignoring the scalding heat of the exposed silver. The star's razor-sharp barbs shredded his raw and mutilated flesh. Blood spurted from the wound, and steam rose from his fingertips, as Clay threw back his head and roared with all his might.


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN – Hey, just wanted to say thank you for all the feedback, glad your enjoying this as wasn't sure about doing it.**_

_**Chapter Eight**_

The atmosphere in the grand salon was refined, civilized. Bach's _Das wohltemperierte Klavier_ played softly in the background as the elite of the coven welcomed their distinguished visitors from America. Crimson nourishment, of a particularly choice pedigree, flowed freely, sipped from sparkling crystal chalices. Vampire ladies and gentlemen, in their finest and most stylish raiment, flirted decorously with their honoured guests. Aiden should have been in his element. The gala reception was precisely the kind of chic, tony soiree he thrived on. Holding court near the entrance of the salon, accepting fulsome compliments from the visiting dignitaries while flattering them in turn, he found himself distracted and unable to enjoy himself. His eyes restlessly searched the faces of the crowd, looking for one particular vampiress, but Ashley was nowhere to be seen.

_Devil take the woman!_ he thought, concealing his growing vexation from the distinguished guests conversing with him. _Where in blazes is she now? _

He glanced over at a tall, black-haired vampire standing watch over the reception from a discreet corner of the room. This was Soren, the imposing head of Aiden's not-so-secret police. Although reputed to be nearly as old as Raife himself, Soren was usefully unambitious, preferring to place his considerable strength and lack of scruples at the disposal of his chosen leader. Of Black-Irish descent, he had the broad shoulders and baleful looks of his fierce ancestors. Soren once had been Raife's personal bodyguard; now he was Aiden's. The looming janissary looked somewhat out of place among the mingling socialites, but Aiden felt better to know that Soren and his hand-picked team of vampire enforcers were on hand should anything untoward occur. Aiden had long ago seen the need for a security force of his own, independent of the obsessed and often intractable Death Dealers, and Soren—ruthless, pragmatic, and brutal when necessary—had proven just the right vampire to carry out the more draconian elements of Aiden's agenda.

Unfortunately, it appeared that not even Soren could guarantee Ashley's attendance at even so glittering an affair. He shot Soren a questioning look, but the stony-faced enforcer shook his head curtly. Aiden resisted an urge to charge up to Ashley's room and personally drag her down to the party. _I've had quite enough of her willfulness and insubordination,_ he fulminated silently. _My patience is wearing thin. _

A gaunt, epicene vampire wearing a red silk sash across the front of his tuxedo stepped into the center of the room and tapped a long white fingernail against the side of his chalice, calling the room to silence. Aiden recognized Dmitri, the eldest of Christine's envoys. The ageless diplomat waited patiently for the chamber's conversations to subside, then cleared his throat. Aiden realized, with a touch of impatience, that the old fool was going to make a speech. "Our noble houses may be separated by a great ocean," Dmitri intoned sonorously, "but we are equally committed to the survival of our sacred bloodlines. When the illustrious Christine, whom I have the honour of serving, arrives to awaken the slumbering Arthur, in just two nights' time, we will once again be united as a single coven." He raised his chalice high, leading the assembled aristocrats in a toast. _"Vitam et sanguinem," _ he recited. _Life and blood. _A chorus of clinking crystal seconded the toast, and Aiden raised his own glass, grateful that the pompous envoy had kept his remarks short.

Aiden snuck a peek at the open doorway, hoping to see Ashley make a tardy arrival, but he was disappointed once more. _I swear,_ he thought in righteous indignation, _if she were not my intended queen, I would never let her get away with such effrontery! _

A cool hand tugged on his elbow, and he turned to see that same baby servant wench—Madison—standing at his side. She was wearing, in keeping with the occasion, a dark sequined dress, with elbow-length black gloves, which did not look too conspicuously threadbare amidst the more dazzling finery of the vampire nobles. _What the devil does_ she _want?_ he wondered, irked by the intrusion. The elfin maidservant pointed demurely at her lips, then beckoned for his ear. Curious, Aiden bent over and let Madison whisper in his ear. His annoyance at the servant girl was instantly superseded by a more volcanic fury directed at another. _I don't believe it!_ he thought, aghast. _How dare she?_

Without bothering to make his apologies to his esteemed guests, he stormed out of the salon. He dashed up the mansion's grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time, until he came to the heavy oak door guarding Ashley's room. He threw open the door and charged inside, quickly confirming that the chamber was just as deserted as Madison had predicted. A car engine roared to life outside, and Aiden ran to the window just in time to witness Ashley's sporty Jaguar speeding past the estate's outer gates, tearing off into the night. _Damnation!_ He gnashed his fangs in fury as he watched the Jag's taillights disappear into the distance. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after five a.m. The sun would be rising in a matter of hours. _So where in Hades could she be going in such a confounded hurry,_ he wondered angrily, _and tonight of all nights? _

Aiden retreated from the window, perplexed and grievously offended. Scanning the room for some clue to Ashley's inexcusable behaviour, he noted her laptop sitting open on the desk; in her unseemly haste, she had left the machine up and running. Frozen on the screen was the profile of some insignificant mortal, apparently lifted from a hospital employee database. A colour photo of a blonde-haired youth was accompanied by the human's name, Spencer Carlin, and various pieces of personal information: age, nationality, address, and so on. Aiden noted with disdain that this Carlin creature was a mere twenty-seven years old. She was a callow pup even by mortal standards. _Who?_ Aiden vaguely remembered Ashley saying something ridiculous about the lycans stalking a particular human, but he failed to see what could possibly be so important about one nondescript mortal. _For this,_ he thought indignantly, _she left me without an escort at my own reception? _Whoever this Spencer Carlin was, Aiden already disliked her intensely.

The grungy apartment building was a far cry from the stately decor of the manor. The carpeted hallway was badly in need of vacuuming, while the plaster walls were scuffed and cracked in places. Harsh fluorescent lights hummed and crackled.

_Good,_ Ashley thought. These were exactly the sort of low-rent lodgings where she would expect to find a struggling medical student. _Must be the right place. _According to the blonde's employee file, the mysterious Spencer Carlin lived on the top floor of the five-story apartment building, which was located within walking distance of the Metro station at Ferenciek Square. Striding down the empty corridor, she counted down the numbers toward Carlin's apartment, 510. Tarnished brass numerals, nailed to a cheap plywood door, confirmed that she had arrived at her intended destination. She paused outside the door, consulting her watch. _Five-fifty._ Less than an hour to sunrise. With little time to spare, she did not waste precious minutes picking the lock. Instead, she effortlessly kicked the door open with a single burst of superhuman strength. Unlike the vampires of myth and movies, she required no invitation to enter the apartment.

The ICU at Karolyi Hospital smelled unpleasantly of antiseptic. Pierce was grateful that in his human form, his nose was not nearly as acute as when he was a wolf. He and Taylor had arrived at the hospital, disguised in the distinctive blue uniforms of Hungarian policemen, in search of the elusive Spencer Carlin. Pierce looked forward to succeeding where Clay had failed—capturing the human, pleasing Glen, and thereby raising his and Taylor's standing in the pack. Unfortunately, Carlin apparently had left the hospital already, and her colleague, a frazzled-looking human named Lockwood, was not proving of much assistance. "Sorry," the lanky physician said with a shrug. "You just missed her."

Pierce had given Lockwood the impression that he and his fellow "officer" just wanted to ask Carlin a few more questions about the incident in the underground. The lycan's long black hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, the better to impersonate a cop. "You know where we can find her?" Lockwood threw up his hands. "She's working a split shift. You'll either have to try her at home or wait until she comes back."

Scowling, Pierce exchanged an impatient glance with Taylor. The other lycan still had an ugly-looking cut on his cheek, left over from their gladiatorial battle down in their lair. Pierce remembered inflicting the wound with his own bloody claws and regretted that Glen had aborted the contest before either of them could have claimed victory. _I know I could have beaten him!_ Pierce thought savagely. _My jaws were strong, my teeth were red !_Perhaps Lockwood noted the bloodthirsty gleam in Pierce's eyes, or maybe he just picked up on the two lycans' tense and edgy mood; in any event, a worried tone entered his voice:"Spencer isn't in any kind of trouble, is she?"

Despite the early hour, Spencer Carlin was not at home. Ashley did not find this too surprising; she was well aware that student doctors often kept ungodly hours. _Not unlike vampires,_ she thought wryly. That was not the only thing she had in common with Carlin. Like her own rooms back at Ordoghaz, the human's apartment had a stark, utilitarian feel. The furniture was functional, not decorative, and the barren, off-white walls offered little insight into the American's personality and tastes. The bland, featureless apartment almost could have passed as a hotel room. _Why would the lycans be interested in this human?_ Ashley took advantage of Carlin's absence to search her apartment, hoping to discover some clue to the mystery. Moving with near-surgical precision, she conducted a thorough sweep of the premises, sifting through Spencer's sparse personal effects. There was no need to turn on the lights; vampire vision was all she required to probe the shadowy corners of the apartment. A stack of mail piled on an end table yielded nothing incriminating, only bills and junk mail. The blonde's bookshelf was equally innocuous, holding only an assortment of medical textbooks, an English-Hungarian dictionary, and a couple of paperback novels, in English, of course. Mysteries and thrillers mostly. Nothing remarkable, not even a dog-eared copy of _Dracula_ or _The Werewolf of Paris. _The apartment was also devoid of guns, drugs, pornography, or anything remotely illicit or dangerous. No silver bullets, no wooden stakes, no garlic… nothing. Carlin's small refrigerator contained only TV dinners, not plasma or human flesh. Spencer Carlin appeared to be exactly what she seemed: a perfectly normal human being, albeit rather far from home. _So why were Clay and that other lycan stalking her? _

Ashley was on the verge of giving up her search, when she stumbled upon a battered manila envelope, tucked away at the back of his desk drawer, where she had missed it before. Carefully opening the envelope, she discovered a sheaf of color photographs. A cavalcade of unfamiliar faces smiled at her. Carlin's friends and family, she guessed. The blonde-haired youth appeared in a number of the photos herself, her smiling semblance captured in a variety of unsuspicious contexts: birthday parties, graduations, camp-outs, beaches, ski trips, and so on. The sunny images, radiant with warmth and fun and fellowship, provoked a peculiar melancholy in the driven vampiress. Her throat tightened as she flipped through the carefree photos, which suddenly struck her as painful reminders of the humanity she had lost over the course of time. She remembered the faded portrait residing on her own desk and wondered why Carlin chose to keep these golden memories hidden away and out of sight. _Doesn't she realize how lucky she is? _

She came upon a heartbreaking photo of Carlin and an unknown woman posing arm-in-arm in front of a breathtaking sunset, of the sort that Ashley had not seen since she had first learned to fear the sun. There was no mistaking the obvious affection and intimacy between the couple. They were deeply, happily, hopelessly in love. Ashley felt a yearning that was almost physical. Her brown eyes gleamed moistly. Had she ever known a love like this? Not truly, she admitted. She had been a mere slip of a girl, fresh-faced and virginal, when Raife had first turned her, ages ago. Since then, her immortal existence had been consumed by her sacred war against the lycans, so that she had all but forgotten the simple, everyday joys of friends and family. Let alone love.

The same woman, sun-kissed and radiant, appeared in several of the photos. Carlin's sweetheart? Girlfriend? Fiancée? Wife? Ashley felt a sudden, irrational surge of jealousy. _Enough,_ she thought firmly. She was wasting time. It was clear the innocent snapshots held no explanation for the lycans' unaccountable interest in Spencer.

Dropping the photos onto the floor like so much trash, she wandered back toward Carlin's overstuffed bookshelf, just in case she had missed something earlier. She ran a gloved finger along the spines of the books, once again finding nothing but a surplus of medical tomes. _Perhaps the lycans are trying to draft a medic?_ she speculated. Someone had to pry the silver bullets out of their mangy hides. _But why Carlin? Why now? _A stethoscope hung on a nail not far from the bookshelf. She fingered the rubber tubing thoughtfully, while wondering just how long she intended to wait for Carlin to return home. Dawn was near, and she was far from the mansion…

The phone rang, startling her.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter Nine**_

Spencer heard the phone ringing as she trudged down the hall toward her apartment. She briefly considered making a dash for the phone, but it was late, and she was too damn tired. That's what answering machines were for. She had to wonder, though, who was calling her in the wee hours of the morning. Had one of her friends back in the States forgotten about the six-hour time difference between Ohio and Budapest? _Probably just a wrong number,_ she figured. Or maybe Nicholas wanting her to work an extra shift.

_No way,_ she thought. Between the bloodbath in the underground and the not-quite-full-moon madness in the ER, she had paid her dues for the evening. All she wanted now was a couple hours of unbroken sleep.

Her groggy eyes widened in surprise, however, as she found the door to her apartment ajar. _What the hell?_ she wondered, even as her answering machine finally kicked into gear.

Spencer heard her own voice, oddly distorted by the cheap electronic device, issue from the darkened apartment: "Hey, this is Spencer. You know what to do." The greeting was delivered first in English, then repeated in somewhat shakier Hungarian, while the real Spencer cautiously entered her defenceless apartment.

_I don't frigging believe this,_ she thought, torn between alarm and exasperation. _First the shoot-out, now this!_ Was she interrupting a burglary in progress, or had the perpetrators already fled the scene? Spencer fervently rooted for the latter scenario. After all, it wasn't as if she had anything worth stealing…

The answering machine beeped loudly, and Spencer froze in her tracks as the machine recorded a frantic message: "Hey, Spence, its Adam." Spencer heard an uncharacteristic degree of anxiety in her friend's voice. "Look, the police were just in here looking for you, and I got the definite impression that they're convinced you were involved in the shoot-out. I told them there was no way you'd be mixed up—"

The_ police?_ Spencer reacted in surprise, a second before a shadow exploded from the darkness and viciously slammed Spencer against the wall, pinning her there. She glimpsed a feminine face, obscured by the darkness. Powerful fingers, amazingly strong, gripped her throat tightly. A cold, hard voice demanded answers. "Who are you? Why are they after you?" Spencer was too shocked and bewildered to reply. She glanced down and was startled to see that her feet were a good six inches off the floor. _How is that even possible?_ she wondered, dumbfounded. _Who the hell is this? Darth Vader?_

Her assailant leaned forward. A shaft of light from the hallway exposed their face, and she was stunned to see that it belonged to that gorgeous, dark-haired woman from the subway station. Recognition flooded her face. "You."

Before she could even begin to process what was happening, the entire apartment trembled. Plaster rained down from the ceiling as three heavy objects landed on the roof. _Huh?_ she thought, unable to keep up with the flood of unexpected jolts. _What just smacked down on the roof?_

Hissing like a cat, the mystery woman let go of Spencer, dropping her back onto the floor, and drew a lethal-looking automatic pistol from beneath the folds of a black leather trench coat. Without a moment's hesitation, the woman unloaded an entire clip into the ceiling. Spencer's ears rang with the explosive thunder of automatic weapons fire. The burette's high-calibre assault on the ceiling provoked a chorus of ferocious roars from whoever—or whatever—was on the roof. Shaking like a leaf, Spencer wasn't sure what terrified her more, the blaring gunfire or the horrendous howls.

"Stay down!" the woman shouted at her. _Screw that!_ Spencer thought, and bolted for the door. 

Unlike Spencer, Ashley knew exactly what was on the roof. Expert ears recognized the monstrous tread of three fully transformed werewolves. _They must be desperate to get Carlin,_ she realized, _if they're willing to reveal their beast forms so readily. _Her trusty Beretta discharged an empty clip, and she hastily reloaded before turning to check on the baffled human, who so far had shown no sign of understanding what was happening. To her dismay, she found herself alone in the apartment. Spencer Carlin was gone.

_Damn!_ she cursed in frustration. She raced out of the apartment into the hall, just in time to see a pair of elevator doors closing on Carlin. Spencer was getting away! Wood and glass exploded to her right as, one after another, three snarling werewolves burst through a fire escape window at the far end of the hall. Fangs bared, cobalt eyes gleaming, they bounded down the dimly lit corridor, heading straight for her. Foam dripped from their frothing jaws.

Ashley looked hurriedly for an exit. Alas, the other end of the hallway ended in a closed apartment door. Worse still, the only stairs were at the opposite end of the corridor, _beyond_ the charging werewolves. She was trapped—or was she? Thinking quickly, she opened fire on the rampaging beasts while simultaneously yanking a second Beretta from her belt. The barrage of silver bullets barely slowed the ravening werewolves; they were in a berserker fury now, and nothing short of a clean kill was going to stop them. There was no way she could take out all three wolves before one or more of them tore her apart. Time for a quick getaway.

Spinning on her heels, she fired at the floor with her second gun, tracing a circular pattern around her boots with automatic fury. Splinters flew wildly about her ankles, and a jagged hole opened up beneath her. Gravity seized her, and she dropped through the gap to the next floor down, landing hard in a dusty avalanche of shredded wood and carpet. She glanced quickly at the elevator, only to see it bypass this floor, heading toward the lobby. _Great,_ she thought sarcastically. Carlin was still getting away from her.

She whirled around toward the stairwell, her only escape route. It was at the far end of the hall, approximately thirty paces away. If she hurried, maybe she could still elude the werewolves and beat Carlin to the ground floor.

A deafening roar sounded overhead, and a fearsome claw reached through the gaping hole in the ceiling. Ashley ducked just in time, barely escaping decapitation. She fired back at the werewolves, strafing the ceiling with red-hot silver as she scrambled for the stairs.

The narrow hallway turned into a hellish gauntlet as yet more lycanthropic arms came thrusting through the ceiling, seeking to snag her before she reached the safety of the stairs. Sparks flew from fractured light fixtures, and knifelike claws raked the air around her. The clamour of the howling werewolves awoke the sleeping apartment building. Ashley heard clumsy stirrings and fearful exclamations coming from behind the flimsy plywood doors. A lupine paw grabbed her long brown hair, the points of its bony claws brushing against her scalp, and Ashley put on a burst of speed, tearing herself free of the creature's murderous grasp. _That was close,_ she realized, wishing she had a full cadre of Death Dealers on hand to back her up. The odds against her were three to one—or worse. Maybe coming after Carlin herself hadn't been such a bright idea.

Inside the elevator, Spencer cringed at the thunderous growls and gunshots penetrating the dubious security of the descending metal compartment. Her anxious blue eyes tracked her progress toward the lobby as she willed the creaky elevator to greater speed. Her distraught mind worked feverishly to make sense of it all. Who was that woman, and what were those animals on the roof? _It sounds like a jungle safari gone wrong out there,_ she thought, feeling as though she were trapped in a particularly incoherent nightmare.

Shoot-outs in subways were one thing; that was just modern urban warfare in the early twenty-first century. Nasty but not unprecedented. But a leather-clad super-babe blasting away at roof-prowling beasts in her own apartment at six o'clock in the morning? Where the heck had that come from—and what did it have to do with her?

The elevator bumped to a stop on the ground floor, and Spencer expelled a gasp of relief. "Come on, come on," she muttered, waiting endlessly for the sealed car to release her. Her sneakers tapped impatiently on the floor, until the metal doors finally slid open—to reveal a stranger waiting in the lobby.

"Hello, Spencer," the man said, speaking English with a crisp American accent. A slight, bearded man, maybe thirty-five years old, with cunning gray eyes and blonde hair, the stranger stood calmly in front of the elevator, his hands clasped behind him. Much like the gun-wielding amazon who had invaded Spencer's apartment, the nameless individual wore a long brown coat over equally dark attire, including a pair of dark brown gloves. A gleaming metal amulet dangled around his neck. He smiled at Spencer with teeth that seemed altogether too white and sharp. As far as Spencer knew, she had never seen this person before, not even in the subway earlier.

Before either of them could say another word, shots suddenly rang out in the lobby. The stranger stiffened as the bullets struck his body. Another shot clayed his right temple, opening a bloody gash along the side of his skull. Startled by the impact, the wounded man dived into the elevator, knocking Spencer over as he did so. They hit the floor hard, the jolt knocking the wind out of Spencer. She found herself lying flat on her back, tangled in a jumble with the man. Rivulets of dark red blood streamed down the stranger's face, as he instinctively reached for his head. He grimaced in pain, looking more pissed off than afraid.

_Who the heck is this dude?_ Spencer thought. Strangely, she was more scared of the gunshot victim than for him. _And who is shooting at us? _Looking up, past the injured man's shoulder, Spencer saw the woman from her apartment suddenly appear in the doorway of the elevator. She thrust her smoking pistols into her belt as she ducked down and grabbed hold of Spencer's leg. Once again, she was caught off-guard by the astounding strength of her grip. Tugging on her ankle, the woman effortlessly dragged her across the floor of the elevator toward the lobby beyond. Before the woman pulled her completely clear, however, the man lunged at her like a blood-soaked demon, sinking his teeth into Spencer's shoulder.

_Shit! He bit me!_Spencer yelped in shock, feeling razor-sharp incisors slice deeply into her flesh. But the strength of the mystery woman was too powerful to be denied; in an instant, Spancer was yanked away from the piercing fangs and into the lobby of her apartment building, where the woman rapidly jerked her to her feet.

Blood gushed from her punctured shoulder, but the leather-clad mystery woman seemed in too much of a hurry to notice. Grabbing her by the wrist, she dragged Spencer with her as she raced for the door leading to the grimy alley outside. Spencer didn't even try to resist; she was just as eager to get away from the psycho in the elevator as the woman was. The woman kicked the front door open, and they hastily fled the building. The rain was coming down hard again, pelting the hood of a snazzy silver Jaguar parked right outside. _Nice wheels,_ Spencer thought absurdly as the woman threw open the passenger door and shoved her inside. 

Glen's mouth was filled with the human's blood. Still sprawled on the floor of the elevator, the injured lycan resisted the urge to swallow the hot, tangy fluid. Instead, he groped about in his pocket until he retrieved a tiny glass vial, which had somehow miraculously survived the vampire's attack. Uncapping the vial, he spit a mouthful of fresh blood into the sterile glass receptacle.

_Mission accomplished,_ he thought coolly. Still, he couldn't allow Spencer Carlin to fall into the hands of the vampires, not if the American was indeed the one they sought. Even if the bloodsuckers were unaware of Carlin's potential significance, Glen had waited too long to let any candidate slip from his clutches.

First, though, he had to do something about the wretched silver. The vampire's bullets burned hellishly within his flesh. Unless he rid himself of their presence soon, the poison would spread throughout his system, killing him just as surely as if the female vampire had sliced off his head. The caustic taint of the silver blazed like acid beneath his skin.

He climbed to his feet, ignoring the throbbing agony, and ripped open his shirt. A trail of gaping entry wounds riddled his chest, enough to kill any ordinary man or lycanthrope. Glen counted at least a half dozen bullet holes. _This isn't going to be easy,_ he realized.

He took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. A look of intense concentration came over his bloodstained face as he closed his eyes and focused on expelling the poison from his body. Straining muscles rippled beneath his skin, while the tendons in his neck stood out tautly like steel cords. Blood pounded at his temples. His jaws clenched as tightly as his fists.

At first, nothing happened. Then, one by one, the yawning wounds contracted, disgorging warped silver slugs in what looked like a grotesque mockery of the miracle of birth. A single blood-red bullet clattered onto the floor of the elevator, followed by a string of identical pellets hitting the ground. Glen's ashen face remained a mask of utter concentration. It had taken him centuries to master this trick, and even now it required all his mental energy and discipline. Agonizing hours seemed to pass, but, in fact, it took him only a matter of minutes to extrude every trace of silver from his immortal form.

He let out an exhausted gasp, and his shoulders slumped with released tension, as the last silver projectile clinked onto the floor. _Now then,_ he thought, licking the last of Spencer's blood from his teeth. _Time to catch up with Mr. Carlin—and that trigger-happy vampire bitch._

"What the fuck is going on?" Spencer demanded, strapped into the passenger seat of the sleek silver Jag. She didn't know if she was being kidnapped or rescued or both. The mystery woman ignored her frantic query. Putting the pedal to the metal, the burnette sent the Jag screeching out of the alley. The sudden acceleration threw Spencer back against her seat, silencing her for the moment.

She whipped her head around, peering back through the Jag's rear window at the apartment building, her home away from home in Budapest, and was shocked to see the lunatic from the elevator come striding out of the lobby, blood dripping from his forehead and bared chest. _What the fuck?_ Spencer thought, flabbergasted. Her shoulder stung like hell where the bloodthirsty man had bit her. _I thought she shot him full of bullets._

The stranger sure didn't look like a man who had just suffered multiple gunshots. Spotting the Jaguar, he raced after it with impossible speed. _This can't be happening!_ Spencer thought in stunned disbelief. The blood-streaked madman was actually _gaining_ on the sports car, as if he were the Six-Zillion-Dollar Man or something.

Spencer's jaw dropped as the carnivorous stranger pounced at the car like a wild beast, leaping through the rain as though jet-propelled. _Ka-runch!_ Their pursuer crashed down onto the trunk of the Jag, causing both Spencer and the mystery woman to start forward in their seats. Spencer's eyes bulged from their sockets as she watched the indefatigable stranger scramble up the back of the car onto the roof, never mind the wind or the rain or the fact that the Jag was going at least sixty miles per hour!

This was getting more insane by the second. _Who are these people?_ Spencer wondered desperately. _And what do they want from me?_

The rain-slick metal was cold and slippery, but Glen's powerful fingers found purchase anyway, digging into the bonded aluminium with clawlike nails that were several centimetres longer than they had been a second ago. It would take more than bad weather to cheat him of his prize, not after all the centuries he'd spent plotting and planning his revenge against the vampires. Spencer Carlin might well be the key to Glen's ultimate victory, and he wasn't about to let some slinky vampire minx abscond with the hapless American. The icy wind hurled the rain against his face, washing away much of the blood from his head wound, as Glen clambered up the back of the car onto the roof. His left hand held on tightly to the chrome trim on the left side of the roof while he reared back in fury and raised his clenched right fist.

_Sha-shank!_ A black carbon steel blade, double-edged and thirty centimetres long, snapped out of his sleeve with spring-loaded force. _Who needs to transform,_ he thought wryly, _when you've got modern technology on your side?_

Spencer stared in fear and confusion at the roof of the Jaguar. She couldn't see the bloodthirsty seemingly indestructible stranger anymore, but Spencer knew the man was up there, only inches above their heads. She suddenly recalled the heavy whatsits landing on the roof of the apartment building, right before she ran like crazy out of her apartment. Had that been only five or ten minutes ago? It was hard to believe.

Everything was happening way too fast. Spencer held her breath, fearful and uncertain about what was coming next. What could the stranger do to them, up on top of the car as he was? _Something bad,_ Spencer guessed, none too eager to find out. _Something really, really bad._

A sharp black knife, thrusting through the metal roof of the accelerating Jaguar, fulfilled her dire expectations. The double-edged blade stabbed repeatedly through the rooftop over the drivers seat, trying to skewer the unknown woman behind the wheel. "Watch out!" Spencer shouted too late.

The blade found its mark, sliding all the way through the woman's shoulder. She yelped in shock, then slammed on the brakes, which squealed like banshees as the Jag abruptly screeched to a halt. Spencer thanked God for her seatbelts, which were all that kept her from flying headfirst through the rain-streaked windshield.

Their attacker was not so lucky. The sudden stop catapulted him off the roof of the car. Spencer watched with eyes agog as the madman hit the street, rolling to a stop several yards in front of the car. He lay facedown on the rain-drenched cobblestones. Spencer feared that the man was seriously injured—until he raised his head and started to get up.

What was it going to take to stop this guy? Blood streaming from her impaled shoulder, the woman floored the gas pedal. The Jag lunged forward, heading straight for the stranger, who was already clambering back onto his feet. Tires squealed against wet pavement.

"No!" Spencer yelled instinctively. The Jag slammed into the stranger with a sickening thud, launching him into orbit.

The car hit Glen head-on, its front end striking his entire body from the shoulders down. The force of the collision shattered ribs and knocked the breath from his body. Against his will, his feet left the pavement as he tumbled toward the moonlit sky.

An ordinary human would be unconscious already, if not dead on impact, but Glen, a pure-born lycanthrope, was not human and never had been. Although fundamentally more canine than feline, he twisted in the air like a panther, landing on his feet many meters behind the female vampire's speeding sports car.

Dark eyes smouldered with stringently controlled rage as he watched the Jaguar's tail-lights pull away from him, disappearing into the night.

_That had to be Ashley,_ he guessed, recalling the formidable reputation of a certain infamous female Death Dealer. His mole inside the vampires' coven often had spoken of Ashley and her intense hatred of all things lycan. Glen always had suspected that their paths would cross someday, but this was not exactly the outcome he had intended. He sniffed the air, smelling the vampire's cold blood upon his blade.

The black knife retracted into his sleeve with a metallic click. Gloved fists clenched in frustration. Fractured ribs began to reknit themselves painfully. Glen had scored first blood against Ashley, yet somehow she had escaped with his prize. _Not for long,_ he vowed. Spencer Carlin was too important to his plans. Glen checked his pocket and was relieved to discover that the precious vial of blood had survived his close encounter with the Jaguar's front end. _A partial victory, then,_ he concluded. He had the human's blood. That would have to do. For now.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter Ten**_

The Jaguar came power-sliding out of an alley, taking the curve at more than fifty miles per hour. The hair-raising turn threw Spencer against the passenger door. Her right shoulder flared in agony where the clayed stranger had bitten it. Despite her own injury, Spencer was more worried about the mystery woman's speared shoulder. The wound was bleeding profusely, much more than her own. Years of medical training kicked in as Spencer frantically attempted to apply pressure to the gash carved out by the madman's knife. To her surprise, the woman's blood felt strangely cool against her palm.

"Stop the car!" she shouted. It was hard enough to try to treat a wound like this with her bare hands, let alone to perform first aid in a speeding vehicle. She'd ridden in rushing ambulances that had raced through city streets slower than the Jaguar was going now. "Stop the car!" The woman angrily slapped the blonde's hand away with her free hand, then snatched up her pistol and aimed it at Spencer. "Back off!" she ordered.

Spencer took the hint and did just that. She sank back into her seat, nervously eyeing the gleaming firearm. From what she'd seen so far, she didn't think the woman was bluffing. "Okay, okay," she assured her, holding up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. She took a second to glance back through the rear window, but there was no sign of the nut with the knife, not that Spencer much expected to see one.

The Jaguar already had left the scene of the hit-and-run attack a couple of blocks behind. Spencer found it hard to imagine that the stranger could still come after them after being turned into roadkill, but at this point she didn't know what to believe.

The Jaguar was heading west toward the Danube, zipping through the cobblestone streets and intersections as if there were a tyrannosaurus on their tail. The rain pouring down outside reflected the lights of the passing street lamps and traffic signals, giving them a fuzzy red, green, or yellow aura that only made the deranged drive seem all the more unreal and dreamlike. Sheets of water poured down the windshield, obscuring her view, but Spencer glimpsed the imposing steel skeleton of Erzsebet Bridge, named after a nineteenth-century empress who was stabbed to death by an anarchist. Her worried gaze was drawn back to the Jaguar's wounded driver. The woman's face was, if possible, even whiter than usual. She kept one hand locked on the steering wheel while the other held the gun in Spencer's face. "Look," Spencer said, trying to reason with her. "You've lost a lot of blood."

Recalling the unnatural coolness of her blood, the young doctor guessed that the woman already had gone into shock. "If you don't pull over, you're going to get us both killed."

"Want to bet?" the driver said defiantly, smiling thinly through her pain. She slammed her foot down on the gas, throwing Spencer back against her seat.

The towering white spires of Erzsebet Bridge loomed dead ahead, growing larger by the second. Spencer had dealt with uncooperative patients before, but never like this. "I'm not screwing around!" the blonde shouted over the roar of the Jaguar's powerful engine.

"Neither am I!" the brunette shot back. Her gaze was glued to the road in front of them. Was it just Spencer's imagination, or were the's brunette eyelids starting to droop alarmingly. "Now shut up and hold on! I'll be fine."

Spencer didn't believe it for a second. She gripped the dashboard in horror as the clayed woman drove down Szabadsajto Avenue like a maniac. _Who does she think is chasing us?_ she wondered. _The entire Hungarian army?_

Once again, she recalled heavy shapes landing loudly on the roof of her apartment, followed by the roaring of inhuman beasts…

The entrance to the bridge was right in front of them. At first, Spencer thought the brunette was heading over the river, but, at the last minute, she took a sharp turn onto the Belgrad Parkway, zooming north along the eastern shore of the Danube. Fashionable boutiques and department stores rapidly gave way to dockside piers and warehouses as the Jaguar rushed past the sleeping waterfront. Towering steel cranes, silent and inactive, perched like praying mantises over dilapidated wharves, while rusty freighters, bearing goods from all over Europe and beyond, were anchored along the shore, waiting for dawn to disgorge a horde of freshly awakened longshoremen and stevedores. Barbed-wire fences guarded wooden pallets stacked high with miscellaneous bales, crates, and bags.

_Where the hell is she taking me?_ Spencer worried, peering anxiously out the windows. _And do we stand a chance of getting there alive? _Darkness blanketed the docks in shadows, but to the east, a faint trace of pink coloured the sky, visible only through the vertical gaps between downtown Pest's modest high-rises. Sunrise was not far away. _Thank God,_ Spencer thought. She couldn't wait for this ghastly night to be over, one way or another. She eyed the injured woman carefully and was horrified to see her shake her head groggily. Her eyes blinked fitfully, as if she were having trouble keeping them open. The gun in her hand shook like a Parkinson's victim.

_I knew it!_ Spencer realized in dismay, not at all happy to have been proven right. Before her panicked eyes, the bleeding woman passed out behind the wheel. The brunette's head slumped forward, and the loaded automatic slipped from her fingers, landing on the black leather console between her and Spencer. Out of control, the Jaguar swerved wildly. Spencer grabbed desperately for the steering wheel, but the car was going too fast, and the woman's limp body got in the way. Tires squealed on slippery asphalt as the Jag veered to the left, crossing two lines of traffic to careen madly toward the docks.

Frozen in fear, Spencer couldn't look away from the windshield. She watched helplessly, her heart pounding like a snare drum, as the Jaguar plowed through a metal guard rail, throwing off fiery orange sparks. The Jag bounced down a rocky embankment, its state-of-the-art, computerized shock absorbers doing little to relieve the bone-jarring jolts that tossed Spencer up and down and from side to side. Her brutalized shoulder shrieked in agony, joining the high-pitched scream tearing its way out of Spencer's lungs.

The front end of the Jag hit a jagged block of concrete, and the plummeting car tumbled end over end toward the river below. Spencer felt as if she were being beaten to a pulp inside a blender. _This is it,_ she grasped in a moment of staggering clarity. _I'm going to die. _And she didn't even know why.

Then the Jaguar was airborne, and for an instant an eerie silence replaced the ear-pounding screeching and crashes. Spencer heard her own heart racing and listened to the breathless pants issuing from her lips. Curiously she heard nothing at all from the unconscious woman. She couldn't even tell if the woman was breathing…

Through the front window, she saw the moonlit surface of the Danube rush toward them like a tidal wave. The Jaguar crashed nose first into the river with a tremendous splash. Spencer's overtaxed seatbelt came loose, and her head rammed into the windshield like a cannonball, cracking the glass. Seeing stars, she struggled to remain conscious despite the ringing in her skull. If she passed out now, she would never wake up.

Already, the floating Jaguar was slipping beneath the surface of the river. Spencer realized she was only minutes away from drowning. Rippling darkness swallowed them whole as the car sank toward the bottom of the Danube, its spinning tires churning up a flurry of bubbles and debris. Through the spider web of cracks across the windshield, Spencer could see only opaque green shadows. She frantically tried to open the passenger door but discovered that her mysterious abductor had locked it electronically, probably to keep her from bailing out of the Jaguar the minute it slowed below fifty. She shot an aggrieved glance at the unconscious woman, then spotted her handgun lying on the center console. A crazy idea occurred to her, and she snatched up the gun and fired it at the window.

The sharp report of the gun echoed painfully inside the cramped confines of the sinking Jaguar. Glass shattered, and a cascade of freezing water rushed in, soaking Spencer to the skin and splashing against her face. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with as much oxygen as she could manage, in preparation for a death-defying swim to the surface. Maybe there was still a chance to get out of this alive.

She looked across the flooding compartment at the helpless woman. Still dead to the world, she made no effort to save herself, even as the cold, dark water engulfed her.

Spencer hesitated, torn between self-preservation and a surprisingly powerful urge to rescue the endangered woman. The woman had done nothing but threaten and kidnap her, yet Spencer found herself horrified at the possibility of the woman dying before she even found out her name. _What the hell. _She dropped the gun, letting it sink to the floor, and grabbed the woman beneath her arms. Dimly remembered lifeguard training, forgotten and unused since that summer she had worked at Coney Island, came back to her as she propelled them both through the shattered window into the murky depths of the river itself. She kicked strenuously toward the surface, trying to ignore the bone-numbing chill of the water. October was no time to go swimming in the Danube.

The insensate woman was dead weight in her arms, as limp and lifeless as a sack of potatoes. She held the woman tightly beneath the brunette's armpits, her hands locked together beneath the woman's breasts. Her loose brown hair caressed Spencer's face, the dark tresses drifting in the current like seaweed.

Moonlight, penetrating the watery darkness, called to Spencer like a beacon, letting her know which way was up. Gravity dragged at her heels as she climbed toward the shimmering silver light with agonizing slowness. Her lungs burned, yearning for air, and she had to bite down hard to keep from inhaling the river itself. She could swim faster, she knew, with her arms freed, yet she held on tightly to her beautiful burden.

Her meagre supply of oxygen was all but exhausted when her head and shoulders finally broke through the surface of the river. Choking and sputtering, she gulped down heaping lungfuls of fresh air as she bobbed upon the waves. Only a few inches away from her face, the woman's head slumped limply to one side, and the blonde took care to keep her mouth and nose above the water. The woman's lovely features were as cold and white as polished bone. Blood darkened the shallow waves lapping at her wounded shoulder. _Who are you?_ Spencer wondered, shifting position so that she kept one arm around the woman's slender waist, while freeing up the other arm to swim with. _And why is that so important to me?_

Fighting the current, which rapidly carried them away from the site of the Jag's final resting place, Spencer side-stroked toward the shore. Night still shrouded the docks in shadow, despite the rosy promise of dawn. Feebly, she called out for help, but exhaustion sapped the carrying power of her voice, and after swallowing several mouthfuls of brackish water, she abandoned the effort, concentrating instead on making it to the eastern bank of the river. Her pathetic cries didn't even rouse the woman in her arms. Spencer worried about hypothermia, uncertain if the dark-haired stranger was still alive. _I'm going to feel really stupid,_ she thought, _if I drown trying to rescue a dead woman. _

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the shore. Spencer's shivering body felt numb from the neck down by the time she crawled onto the muddy slope beneath a rotting wooden dock. Moss and slime coated the weathered rocks protruding from the embankment, making it hard to get a grip as she dragged herself and her uncomplaining companion into the damp, claustrophobic space. The slick green underside of the pier was only inches above her soggy scalp, providing them with precious little headroom in which to maneuver. Garbage, washed up along the shore, littered the filthy riverside burrow. Spencer felt a curious kinship with the broken bottles, crumpled beer cans, discarded cigarette wrappers, greasy rags, and other assorted bits of flotsam cast up onto the uncaring embankment. Like them, she had no idea how or why she had ended up, soaked and dishevelled, beneath the docks. _At least I'm still alive,_ she thought. _That's something._

Breathing hard, she gave herself a moment to recover from the gruelling swim. She wanted to put her head down and sleep for a year or two but knew she couldn't collapse entirely until she had seen to the woman. For all she knew, the woman required immediate medical attention. Water gurgled from the brunette's mouth as Spencer laid her down sideways atop muddy rocks. Spencer caught a glimpse of pearl-white teeth and oddly pointed incisors. Her eyes were closed, hiding the striking brown orbs the blonde remembered from the subway station. She gently raised the woman's eyelids to check her pupils, which were widely dilated. She felt a thready pulse at her throat. Spencer guessed that the woman was suffering from shock, hypothermia, blood loss, or all of the above, not to mention a close brush with drowning. In a way, it seemed a miracle that she was alive at all.

The brunette's wound, she noted, had finally stopped bleeding. _Thank heaven for small favors,_ she thought. There was no time to lose. Her teeth chattering like castanets, she rolled the woman onto her back, then clasped her hands together and pressed down sharply on the woman's abdomen—once, twice, three times. _C'mon!_ she urged her silently. Water streamed from her blonde hair, raining down on her patient's leather-clad form. Her eyes scoured the beautiful face of the woman for some sign that she was responding to her urgent ministrations. _Breathe for me. Breathe! _She refused to give up on her. _You can't do this to me!_ she thought.

Spencer recalled the defiant glint in her eyes as she pulled the gun on her, remembered the cold smile on her porcelain face as she fearlessly raced the Jaguar through the city streets, snatching the blonde away from that nut in the lobby—and whatever was prowling about on the rooftop.

For the first time, it dawned on Spencer that the woman might very well have saved her life, although she couldn't begin to guess why. _ You can't die! s_he protested vehemently, staring in anguish at the brunette's lifeless, lovely features. Even unconscious and streaked with mud, she was still the most beautiful woman Spencer had ever seen. _I don't even know who you are! _

The woman gagged suddenly, frigid water gushing from her mouth and nose, and Spencer's heart leaped in relief. The leather-clad woman coughed and sputtered, lifting her head a few inches above the sludge. Her eyes flickered open, just long enough to look up and see Spencer kneeling above her. The blonde tried to flash her a reassuring smile, employing her best bedside—or dockside—manner. Her medical training came to her rescue again, and she tugged open the leather shirt to check on the extent of the injuries. It was possible, after all, that the brunette might have been hurt in the crash, on top of the knife wound in her shoulder. Her skin beneath the waterlogged black fabric was as smooth and white as ivory.

The blonde reached down to probe the woman's ribcage gently, only to succumb suddenly to a wave of dizziness that sent her head spinning. Her vision blurred, and darkness encroached on the periphery of her sight. She shook her head groggily, trying and failing to overcome the sense of lightheadedness washing over her. She touched her forehead and winced in pain. She tugged back bloody fingers. Shit, she thought, remembering her head-on collision with the windshield. _I have a concussion._


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter Eleven**_

Pierce and Taylor reported back to the infirmary empty-handed. _This is growing bothersome,_ Singe thought. How was he supposed to continue his experiments without an adequate supply of suitable subjects? He glanced over at the genealogical chart on the wall. This Spencer Carlin was proving more elusive than all of the previous specimens combined.

The lycan scientist paced back and forth impatiently, while the two failed hunters briefed him on their botched mission topside. Stolen police uniforms, somewhat the worse for wear, clothed their brawny physiques. Singe regarded Pierce and Taylor skeptically; like most lycans, they relied more on their animal strength, and sharpened teeth and claws, than on their brains. Singe himself was an exception in that regard. As was Glen.

At least the hulking pair had fared better than Clay, in that they hadn't returned to the underworld peppered with silver. No medical exertions were required of Singe, although he would have welcomed a surgical challenge to keep his hands and mind occupied while he awaited word of Glen's own excursion to the city above. He prayed to the strictly metaphorical gods of pure science that Glen would succeed where his brutish minions had not.

A door slammed open at the rear of the converted Metro station, and Glen strode into the cluttered infirmary. Singes hopes were dashed when he saw that their pack leader also had returned sans quarry. He tried not to let his disappointment show, for fear of provoking the other lycan's wrath. Glen's leather jacket was riddled with bullet holes, and the shirt beneath was torn open, exposing a hairy white chest liberally streaked with blood. Singe peered quizzically at the telltale puncture marks, but Glen shook his head. Apparently, the solitary lycan did not require medical attention, either. Singe was not surprised; he knew full well that their immortal leader was perfectly capable of tending to his own minor (and not so minor) injuries.

But even that highly impressive talent would be nothing compared with the awesome capabilities that would be Glen's should Singe's meticulous research bear fruit. _We are on the verge of a revolutionary breakthrough,_ he thought avidly, his bright, intelligent eyes gleaming at the staggering possibilities promised by his experiments. _My theories are perfect, I know they are. All I need now is just the right human subject…_

"Another escape," the scientist said with a sigh, contemplating Glen's empty hands. "Impressive. Perhaps Clay wasn't overstating matters." _Have the vampires indeed caught on to our hidden designs?_ Singe worried. He feared how far the enemy might go to thwart the great experiment. _No, that's impossible. The bloodsuckers are too vain and decadent to comprehend the genius of my endeavour. They're just harrying us for sport, as they always have. _A triumphant grin stretched across Glen's face. He casually reached into one of the inner pockets of his coat and drew forth a capped vial filled with a rich scarlet fluid. "Clay didn't bring this back," he observed.

Singe's face lit up as Glen tossed him the vial. The middle-aged scientist eagerly held up the vial to the harsh fluorescent light. Thanks to the anticoagulant inside the vial, the blood looked as though it had been freshly bled mere minutes ago. _Hello, Spencer Carlin,_ Singe thought, staring exuberantly at the gently sloshing red sample. _I've been looking forward to meeting you._

A worrisome thought disturbed him. Pierce and Taylor both had reported seeing Carlin in the company of a female Death Dealer, probably the same one who had killed Trix several hours ago. He looked over at Glen, letting his unease show on his weather-beaten face. "If Spencer is indeed the Carrier," he began, "the vampires could—" Glen dismissed Singe's concerns with a wave of his hand. "Relax, old friend. I've tasted her flesh. Just two more days until the full moon. Soon she will be a lycan." Glen's wolfish grin grew wider by the moment. Singe nodded in understanding, his fears allayed by this intriguing new revelation. "Soon she will be looking for us."

Protective metal shades began to descend over the patterned bay window in Aiden's suite, signalling the arrival of dawn. The reception in the salon had long since wound down, as both the mansion's distinguished guests and its permanent residents retired for the morning, but Aiden could not rest. He stared out the window at the estate's front gate until his view was completely cut off by the lowering shades. _Where in blazes is that infernal woman?_ he thought, his handsome face disfigured by bitterness and resentment.

Any other vampiress would be punished severely for such egregiously disrespectful behaviour, yet Ashley continued to defy him with impunity. "Frigid, castrating bitch," he muttered beneath his breath. She was taking advantage of his own deep feelings for her, the ungrateful vixen. A sliver of sunlight crept across the carpet at his feet, and he backed away instinctively. A second later, the sun-proof metal shades reached the bottom of the window, banishing the obscene radiance from the suite entirely.

Aiden hoped that Ashley, wherever she was, had found some shelter from the sun. _It would be just like her,_ he thought indignantly, _to die before I have an opportunity to confront her about her waywardness! _Once and for all. 

The sound of water lapping against the shore roused Ashley, who awoke not entirely certain where she was. Slowly opening her eyes, despite a throbbing ache beneath her skull, she found herself stretched out on her back beneath some kind of reinforced wooden structure. Algae-covered timbers formed a roof maybe twenty centimetres over her head. She heard the steady flow of a river down by her feet. _A dock,_ she grasped with no little confusion. _I'm under a dock, probably down by the Danube. _But how?

It took her another moment to realize that she was not alone. A figure lay next to her, resting their head upon her shoulder like a lover. For one horrific second, she feared that she finally had succumbed to Aiden's never-ending blandishments, then noted with relief the tousled blonde hair on the sleeping figure, quite unlike Aiden's flowing ebony locks. _Praise the Elders!_ she thought.

She blinked her eyes as the fog cleared from her mind. _Of course,_ she realized, recognizing the unconscious mortal beside her. _Spencer Carlin. _Much of last night's exploits came back to her, although she remained distinctly puzzled about how she and Carlin had ended up camping out beneath Budapest's thriving waterfront.

The last thing she remembered was driving her Jaguar madly away from one unusually persistent lycan. And a vicious blade stabbing through the roof of the car into her shoulder…

Turning her head, she discovered that the shoulder in question had been crudely bandaged with what looked like a torn portion of Carlin's black T-shirt. _She dressed my wound after I assaulted her at her home, then abducted her at gunpoint?_ She didn't know whether to be grateful for the blonde's efforts or appalled by her naďveté. _Well, she is a doctor,_ she recalled. _Guess she takes her Hippocratic Oath seriously. _

Marshalling her strength, she tried to sit up as far as the overhanging dock would permit. A glare to one side hurt her eyes, and it suddenly registered that there were scorching sunbeams all around her, blazing down through minute cracks and knotholes in the dock above. The golden rays surrounded her like an array of deadly lasers. "Perfect," she muttered archly. Dismayed by her precarious situation, she automatically reached for her guns, only to find both holsters empty. Had Carlin disarmed her at the same time as she had so thoughtfully tended to her injured shoulder? Uncomfortable without a weapon in her hand, she searched the silty muck at her sides with her fingers, only to venture too near a caustic sunbeam.

_Pfffttt!_ The beam touched the back of her hand, causing the exposed white flesh to sizzle instantaneously. She yanked the hand back, wincing in agony as thin gray tendrils of smoke arose from her scalded knuckles. She thrust the burned hand deep into the chilly muck, then exhaled loudly as the icy dampness did its best to cool her scorched skin. _Dammit,_ she thought. _I knew I should have worn gloves on this mission._

Having learned her lesson, she kept absolutely still, not moving a muscle as she cautiously eyed the luminous rays shooting down from above. The fragmented sunlight had her effectively pinned in; she could barely stir without running into one of the malevolent beams. Not that she knew where she could escape to now that the sun had very obviously risen or how she could even leave this place in broad daylight.

For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder what had become of her trusty Jaguar. _I probably don't want to know,_ she thought. How long would she be trapped here? She risked a peek at her expensive waterproof wristwatch, which had survived whatever calamity had stranded her beneath the docks, and was chagrined to see that it was not even nine a.m. Sunset was a good ten hours away. Ashley groaned. It was going to be a _long_ day. 

Singe used a bulbed pipette to add five drops of Spencer Carlin's blood carefully to a glass beaker filled with a clear plasma solution. Glen held his breath as he intently watched the brilliant scientist conduct his experiment. _Could it be,_ Glen thought, _that we are finally nearing the end of our quest?_ Was the hapless American the one they had been seeking for so long?

"It's a shame we don't have more," Singe commented, regarding the depleted supply of blood in the tiny vial. He and his leader were alone in the lycans' squalid infirmary. _Have no fear, my sagacious friend,_ Glen thought, his eager gaze never leaving the beaker on the counter. He could still taste the human's blood upon his tongue. _If this sample tests true, then all the vampires in creation will not stop me from dragging Spencer Carlin back to this laboratory, so that our ultimate destiny can be fulfilled at long last._

Singe set a timer, then stirred the contents of the beaker with a glass rod. The crimson droplets reacted with the catalyst immediately, much faster than either he or Glen had expected. Violet swirls materialized within the solution, chasing the stirring rod like miniature contrails aglow in the setting sun. Unlike before, this mixture did not display the familiar black tint of failure. "Positive," Singe announced. His wrinkled face was positively beaming.

Glen could scarcely believe his ears—or eyes. After so many defeats and disappointments, could this really be true? He knelt down in front of the counter, lowering himself so that he could stare directly into the swirling fluid; still there was no sign of the hated black transformation. His bearded face held a look of childish wonder as his rapt eyes tracked the swirling violet wisps. He had waited a very long time for this moment. _Victory is ours,_ he thought with certainty. _Once I retrieve Spencer Carlin, that is._

Daylight chased Ashley toward the sleeping human. As the sun slowly crossed the sky above the waterfront, the deadly sunbeams crept steadily nearer to Ashley, forcing her to inch closer and closer to Carlin's unconscious form in order to avoid being burned alive. Along with the incandescent rays, the sounds of the day penetrated the massive timber dock above her head. Footsteps pounded on the wharf as teams of Hungarian longshoremen went about their business, loading and unloading the greedy freighters cruising up and down the Danube. Tugboat horns brayed, competing with the raucous cawing of the gulls.

Ashley pined for the silence and safety of her suite back at Ordoghaz, while counting on all the hustling activity to hide her presence beneath the pier. _The last thing I need is some well-meaning mortal stumbling onto me down here._ She shuddered at the thought of a crew of would-be rescuers dragging her out into the lethal daylight. _I'm in enough danger as it is. _Relentless in its approach, a merciless sunbeam glided toward her. Carlin's body blocked her escape route, and, biting down on her lip, she realized that there was no other way to go. _Time to get to know Miss. Carlin a bit better…_

Rolling over onto her stomach, and away from the advancing sunlight, she pushed off from the muddy slope and slid her leather-encased body over onto Spencer Carlin's supine form. Her svelte legs straddled the blonde's waist as she rested her weight atop her, staring down at her upraised face. "Pardon me," she remarked wryly, faintly embarrassed by her intimate proximity to the comatose human. _And to think we haven't even been introduced!_ She couldn't help noticing once again Carlin's stunning good looks. Despite everything she had been through, and a purplish bruise on her forehead, her youthful features were undeniably appealing, while her soaking windbreaker and torn black T-shirt clung to a slender, athletic torso. _If I had to spend a day on top of a strange human,_ Ashley reflected, _there are worse specimens I could have ended up with._

Ashley squirmed awkwardly astride the mysterious Spencer Carlin, trying to make herself more comfortable. She felt the heat radiating off the woman's body and regretted that she had so little of her own to share. Her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the juicy vein pulsing at Carlin's throat; it had been hours since she last fed, and Ashley was sorely tempted to nip the stranger's defenceless neck with her fangs. She licked her lips thirstily. Perhaps just a taste?

_No,_ she resolved firmly, forcing herself to look away from the throbbing vein. Unlike some vampires, she did not take advantage of unwilling humans. The questing sunbeam, heading northwest, missed her by centimetres, gliding instead across Carlin's beautiful cheekbones. Ashley watched in unaccountable fascination as the travelling ray illuminated the mortal's features, bathing her face in golden light. Sweat beaded on Carlin's forehead as her closed eyes squinted even more tightly against the intrusive radiance. She stirred beneath the vampiress, moaning softly, but did not awaken. Ashley shifted her weight slightly, unable to look away from the enigmatic stranger. _Who are you, Spencer Carlin?_ she wondered. _And why do the lycans want you so?_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter Twelve**_

Feverish images paraded backward across Spencer's mind: _Shards of black glass converged before her eyes, the shattered fragments flying through the void in reverse, converging into a pattern he couldn't quite discern…_

_Severed iron chains snaked toward a dank granite floor, the broken links jangling loudly as they snapped back together, binding the chains tautly to the floor…_

_A beautiful dark-haired woman, clad in the torn remnants of a once-elegant gown, dangled in the fearsome clutches of a medieval torture device. A garbled scream pulled her jaws apart, exposing strangely pointed eyeteeth beneath her crimson lips. Steel and leather restraints obscured her body below the waist. Her eerie white eyes were tinged with streaks of red. Somehow Spencer knew that the imprisoned damsel's name was __Kyla and that she was a princess of sorts, as well as the love of her life…_"Kyla," she murmured, even as the woman's face blurred before her eyes, becoming instead the woman from the Metro station, the one who had stolen her away from the madman with the knife and the bloodthirsty teeth. _Who?_ she wondered. If anything, she was even more staggeringly beautiful than the captive princess. _How?_

"Lie still," the woman—not Kyla—said. A gentle hand pushed firmly against her shoulder. "Your skull's taken a good knock." Spencer blinked her eyes in confusion as she awoke, sort of, to find herself reclining upon a chaise longue. She looked around groggily gradually realizing that she was no longer washed up below the waterfront. Panelled oak walls and antique furnishings now surrounded her instead.

"Do you have any idea why those… men were after you?" the mystery woman asked, peering intently at her face. Spencer was relieved to see her alive and well, even though she still had no idea who the woman was. "Where are—?" Spencer tried to sit up, but the motion sent her head spinning. Alternating chills and hot flashes washed over her. Her vision wavered sickeningly.

"You're safe," the woman assured her. She loomed above Spencer, her pale face only inches from her own. "I'm Ashley." _Ashley._ Spencer clung to the name like a life preserver, even as darkness lapped again at her consciousness. She felt fatigued and queasy, as if her body were fighting against some kind of infection—and losing badly. Her shoulder throbbed dully where that nutcase had bitten her, and a sliver of moonlight, entering the elegant chamber through an open window, sent a tremor through her entire frame. Her skin tingled oddly, the hairs on her arms standing up as though electrified. A mournful howl echoed inside her skull, like a ringing in his ears._ I'm Spencer,_ she thought, over the cacophonous howl. She opened her lips to introduce herself, but the effort exhausted her, and she sank back against the velvet cushions of the couch. She struggled to keep her eyes open, to stay awake, but the tidal pull of the encroaching darkness was too powerful to resist.

Ashley's face dimmed, and her voice receded into the distance, as the blonde succumbed to oblivion once more. "Ashley," she whispered, taking the brunette's name with her into the darkness.

Ashley sighed impatiently as Carlin lost consciousness again. The blow to the youth's head, which had left an ugly scab surrounded by a dark purple bruise, obviously had done a number on her. Spencer had been dead to the world for at least eleven hours, long enough for the sun finally to sink below the horizon, freeing Ashley from her enforced captivity beneath the waterfront.

Carlin had remained oblivious even while Ashley had gone to the trouble of renting a car to replace her vanished Jaguar, then the blonde slept like a corpse during the entire drive back to Ordoghaz. Ashley regretted not being able to take the injured human straight to an emergency room, but with the lycans hunting her so relentlessly, she was safer here in her quarters. _But why are they after you?_ she wondered again. _What makes you so special, besides your beautiful face and good Samaritan tendencies, that is._ Clearly, interrogating the depleted human was going to have to wait until she had recovered more from her ordeal the night before. With luck, perhaps she would be able to answer a few questions by sunrise.

Ashley mopped Spencer's forehead with a damp cloth, taking extra care around the area of the bruise. _I probably should examine her more carefully,_ she thought. She had only just arrived at the mansion with her insensate charge, so there had not yet been time to check beneath Carlin's bloodstained jacket for any additional injuries. It occurred to her that she had no memory of exactly how Carlin had hurt her head. _Must have happened while I was out cold myself. _

Although her wounded shoulder was largely healed, she still felt a phantom pain where that unidentified lycan had stabbed her. A glimpse of a metal pendant flashed across her memory, and she wondered once more who that lycan in the lobby had been. She had not recognized his face from any of the Death Dealers' copious surveillance files on their enemies.

"So," a pert voice interrupted her musings, "for once the rumours are true." Ashley turned away from the chaise to see Madison strolling blithely across the suite. She frowned, annoyed. The pert servant girl was invading Ashley's quarters so regularly that the older vampiress was starting to feel as if she had an unwanted roommate. Besides, this was none of Madison's business. "The whole house is absolutely buzzing about your new pet," Madison chirped enthusiastically.

She approached the chaise longue, examining Carlin with open curiosity. "Oh, my God. You're going to try to turn her, aren't you?" Ashley rolled her eyes. "Of course not." She had never converted a human into a vampire, voluntarily or otherwise, in all of her long years among the undead. Killing lycans was her life's work, not seducing the innocent. And she couldn't care less what Aiden and his crowd of ageless dilettantes said about her. Madison nodded, as if she understood where Ashley was coming from. The sylphlike vampiress made a slow circle around the chaise longue, dragging her painted fingernails along the edge of the burgundy-coloured velvet pillows. "Your stance on humans is a matter of record," she acknowledged.

As far as Ashley was concerned, mortals were strictly innocent bystanders in the war against the lycans, but beyond that, she had always given them little thought. "I have no stance," she insisted, perhaps a little defensively. "I have nothing to do with them."

"Exactly," Madison pointed out with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Her white shoulders spilled from the top of her frilly black frock. "So why bring her here?"

_Touché,_ Ashley thought. The silly girl had a point, as much as Ashley was loath to concede it. Why had she gone to such lengths for this human, aside from a natural instinct to deprive the lycans of their prey? Mystified, she searched her own soul as she stared down at Carlin's attractively tanned face. If thwarting the lycans were her only goal, why was she here nursing the comatose human like some sort of vampire Florence Nightingale? Why did she care if the blonde lived or died? "She saved my life," she said softly, after a moment's thought. She did not know exactly what had happened after she had passed out behind the wheel of the Jaguar, but she felt certain that she would not have made it safely to the shore without Spencer's assistance. And who else could have bandaged her lacerated shoulder?

Madison's jaw dropped, revealing dainty white fangs. She was clearly flabbergasted at the notion of a mere human coming to the aid of a vampire—and a Death Dealer, no less! She glanced down at Carlin with greater interest, and perhaps a flicker of jealousy. Did she envy Ashley her human Princess Charming? Ashley watched over Carlin protectively. It dawned on her that Madison had offered no explanation for her arrival. Ashley's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you here?" Madison wilted somewhat before Ashley's forbidding gaze, backing away from the chaise and its slumbering occupant. "Aiden sent me," she said with a gulp. "He wants to see you. Now." 

Thunder boomed outside, and rain slashed the windows, as Aiden and Ashley argued within his palatial suite. The two high-ranking vampires were at each others throats, figuratively if not literally. "Completely unacceptable," Aiden railed indignantly, stalking back and forth across the handmade Persian carpet. His furious gestures sliced the air. As usual, he was dressed to the nines, in a tailored black suit. "You go against my orders and spend the daylight hours away from the shelter of the mansion—with a human? A human you have since brought back into _my house!" _Ashley did not back down. Unlike Aiden, she neither paced nor waved her arms as she spoke, remaining as still and composed as a hibernating Elder. "As far as I'm concerned, this is still Raife's house."

Aiden shot her a poisonous look; he didn't like being reminded that he was only the master of the manor in Raife's absence. Growling in anger, he stomped over to the window and peered out into the stormy night. Ashley glimpsed a bright gibbous moon peeking out from behind the churning thunderclouds. "Look," she said, lowering her voice. Her tight-fitting leathers were still streaked with blood and mud; there had been no time to change since returning to Ordoghaz. "I don't want to argue. I just need you to understand that Spencer is somehow important to the lycans." He spun around to confront her, his dark eyes smouldering with suspicion. "So, now it's _Spencer," _ he mocked her in an accusing tone.

Ashley repressed an impatient sigh. The last thing she needed right now was Aiden's adolescent jealousy. Too much was at stake. "Aiden, would you just hear me out?" She took a deep breath before trying to enlighten him once more. "There's something—" He cut her off abruptly. "It's beyond me why you're still obsessing over this ridiculous theory." He dismissed her concerns with an airy wave of his hand. "Glen wouldn't be the slightest bit interested in a human!" _Glen?_ Ashley could not conceal her surprise. Why was Aiden invoking a long-dead lycan? The infamous Glen had been killed centuries ago. _I don't understand,_ Ashley thought, her brain struggling to process Aiden's peculiar remark.

Fortunately, he mistook her baffled expression for something entirely different. "Wait," he said dramatically, like a prosecutor playing to a jury. "You're infatuated with her. Admit it."

"Now, _there's_ a ridiculous theory," she retorted, although somewhat less forcefully than she had intended. Her words rang oddly false even to her own ears. Aiden seized on the hint of indecision in her voice. Sneering, he surged toward her, her face flushed with frustration and resentment. "Is it?" he demanded. A flash of lightning outside was followed by a booming thunderclap that rattled the glass in the window panes. The storm was building. 

Left alone in Ashley's private quarters, which were ever so much finer than her own, Madison considered the unconscious human collapsed upon the chaise longue. The blonde really was quite beautiful, if not quite better than Lord Aiden was. _Not bad for a human,_ she decided, _if you like that sort of thing…_

Bored, she cuddled beside the human, enjoying the warmth of her mortal body against her cool flesh. The baby vampiress playfully tickled the human's neck, running a teasing nail along her jugular, and twirled her tousled blonde hair around her fingers. All the while, she tried not to think about the fact that Ashley was alone with Aiden in his opulent suite. _Don't be silly,_ she scolded herself, driving away the jealous fantasies bedevilling her mind.

Aiden had been positively incensed by Ashley's antics when he'd dispatched Madison to find her. Judging from the irate look on his face, he was more likely to horsewhip Ashley than make love to her. Or so Madison hoped. _Frankly, I wouldn't mind a good spanking from Lord Aiden,_ she thought, _as long as it was for the right reasons._ It was all horribly unfair; Ashley was getting all of Aiden's attention, and she didn't even appreciate it! Amusing herself with Ashley's toy gave Madison some small bit of revenge. She inspected the human's exposed throat, only to notice a series of tiny rips in the shoulder of her jacket. What's this? she thought, brown eyes widening. Had the haughty Ashley, despite her protestations, been unable to resist nibbling on the merchandise?

Intrigued, Madison peeled back the human's collar. Looking for the telltale mark of a vampire's kiss, she was shocked to discover instead an ugly, swollen red bite wound on the mortal's inflamed right shoulder. The vicious-looking teeth marks were rough and jagged, quite unlike the discreet imprint of a vampire's fangs, and tiny, bristling black hairs sprouted from the depths of the bloody indentations. "Holy shit!" Madison exclaimed, suddenly losing all interest in sampling the sleeping human's blood. Not a Death Dealer, she had never seen a victim of the lycans before, but she knew a lycan's bite when she saw one. _She's been turned,_ she realized in alarm and disgust, recoiling from the touch of her infected flesh. S_he's one of them!_

A blinding flash of lightning lit up the room. Thunder boomed, and the human suddenly snapped awake, screaming at the top of her lungs. This was too much for Madison, who sprang straight up like a startled cat, sticking to the ceiling while hissing at the shrieking human below. Her claws dug into moulded plaster, close to two meters above the human's head, as the stunned mortal stared up at her, eyes blinking in horrified amazement, like a woman trapped in a never-ending nightmare. Madison didn't know how long it took to turn a human into a lycanthrope, but she wasn't taking any chances.

Aiden's boots echoed down the portrait-lined hallway, in unison with the thunder roaring outside, as he marched with virulent purpose toward Ashley's quarters in the eastern wing of the mansion. Ashley chased after him, fearful for Spencer Carlin's safety. "What are you planning to do to him?" she called out urgently. Aiden would not even look back at her. "Whatever I please!" he declared, letting nothing slow his murderous trek through the mansion. His outstretched claws twitched at his sides, as though they were already tightening around Spencer's neck. _No!_ Ashley thought anxiously, quickening her pace as she raced after Aiden. She realized Spencer was in deadly danger; despite Aiden's foppish airs, the lordly vampire could be brutally lethal when crossed. _I can't let him kill Spencer,_ she despaired. But was there any way to stop him? 

_I have to get out of here! _Spencer looked around frantically, desperate for a way out. This whole situation was insane—guns and knives and levitating women. She had no idea where she was or what had happened to Ashley, but she knew that she had to get away from all these gun-wielding lunatics. A moonlit window caught her eye, and she dashed unsteadily over to it and shoved open the glass. It was raining like hell outside, and a gust of cold wind spattered her face with icy wetness. Spencer ignored the rain and peered over the edge of the window. To her dismay, she discovered that it was a good twenty-foot drop to the ground. "Shit!" she muttered.

Having second thoughts about the window, she turned back toward the room—-just in time to see the woman drop from the ceiling onto the floor, blocking the doorway to the hallway outside. The brown-haired nymphet glared at Spencer, hissing like a pissed-off cat. She raised her hands in front of her defensively, her sharpened fingernails extended like claws. She bared shiny white teeth, complete with pointed fangs that looked like something out of a Hollywood horror movie.

_Screw this,_ Spencer decided, preferring to take her chances with the window. She scrambled onto the sill and jumped into the beckoning night. She plummeted two stories, tumbling head over heels, before slamming down onto the wet lawn below. The crash landing stunned her, and for a second, everything went black. Her eyes drooped shut, and Spencer suddenly found herself somewhere else. _Black glass exploded outward as she dived headfirst through a stained-glass window. The tinkling of the broken glass rang in her ears as she landed with a crash on the rocky ground below. The scent of the nearby forest tantalized her nostrils, offering the promise of freedom and safety. She rolled over onto her back, and the night sky came into view, cold and unwelcoming, the distant stars looking down on her without mercy. A blood-red moon, full and gigantic, hung between billowing storm clouds like an angry portent, casting an eerie light onto the high stone walls of an ancient fortress…_

Fierce barks and growls intruded upon the scene, yanking Spencer harshly back to reality. Her eyes snapped open, and she realized she was lying on the lawn. The stately Gothic mansion loomed behind her, looking very different from the forbidding stone edifice in her… what? Dream? Vision? Memory? _Where the fuck did that come from?_ she asked herself, bewildered. The bizarre, hallucinatory experience had felt more vivid than a dream, closer to a memory, but she knew she had never lived through anything like that before. _I think I would remember jumping through a glass window! _

The barking grew louder, closer. She blinked repeatedly to clear her mind and lifted her aching head from the soggy grass. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed as her eyes focused on the alarming sight of three snarling Rottweilers racing toward her across the lawn, looking like the Hound of the Baskervilles' less friendly cousins. Ivory fangs glistened in the moonlight. Panic spurred Spencer into action as she hurriedly scrambled to her feet and, limping like mad, took off for the estate's perimeter fence, the yowling attack dogs in hot pursuit. Somehow she knew that no one was going to be calling the hounds off.

Aiden stormed into the room, startling Madison, who let out a high-pitched yelp. Ignoring the servant wench, Aiden searched the chamber for this Spencer Carlin whom Ashley was so obsessed with. _I'll break her neck before Ashley's very eyes,_ he vowed, _and drink her blood to the last drop._ He smiled cruelly at the thought. _That will teach her to place her fickle infatuations above her duty to the coven—and to me. _But the inconvenient human was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, Aiden shot an inquiring look at Madison, who nodded sheepishly toward the open window. A cold draft blew against Aiden, rustling his inky locks and silk jacket, as he heard the hounds baying loudly outside."Damnation!" he cursed. Why couldn't this miserable human stay put? 

The hellhounds lunging at her heels, Spencer clambered up and over the slippery iron fence. She panted in exhaustion, her ragged breaths frosting in the chilly air. Taking care not to impale herself on the fence's rusty spikes, she splashed down on the opposite side of the barrier. The furious dogs thrust their muzzles through the metal bars, snapping and barking at their elusive prey. _Bye, bye, doggies,_ Spencer thought sarcastically as she stumbled away from the fence. A shadowy line of naked oaks and beeches promised shelter and concealment, and she limped through the storm toward the swaying trees. The wind pelted her face and hands with icy rain, and thunder punctuated every other anguished minute. Was she heading north or south, toward the city or away from it? Spencer had no idea, nor did it matter. All she cared about now was putting distance between herself and the dogs—and that entire freakhouse mansion. Her infected shoulder burned like hell.

Aiden strode impatiently to the window, even as he heard Ashley rush into the room behind him. Perhaps the dogs already had claimed the human, he speculated. It would not be as satisfying, true, as slaying Carlin himself, but Aiden decided he could live with having Ashley's pet torn apart by the hounds. _A fitting end,_ he decreed silently, _for so insignificant a creature. _His undead eyes easily penetrated the darkness outside. To his disappointment, however, he did not see the Rottweilers enthusiastically savaging Carlin's bleeding carcass. Instead, he saw the dogs yapping impotently at the fence and was forced to arrive at a singularly galling conclusion. The human had escaped. 

Lightning strobed the night, casting aside the darkness micro-seconds at a time. Thunder pealed overhead, all but drowning out the lupine howling inside Spencer's skull. She tore through the woods like an escapee from a chain gang, cold and wet and gasping for breath. Her heart pounded wildly, and she kept glancing back over her shoulder, fearful of whatever might be following her. She stumbled clumsily over the uneven terrain, tripping over dimly glimpsed branches and vines. She toppled forward, scraping her palms on the underbrush, but kept on hurrying ahead even as she painfully dragged herself back onto her feet. Muddy puddles caught her by surprise, soaking her bedraggled socks and sneakers all the way through. The baying of the hounds rang out behind her, urging her onward. _What if someone opens the gate?_ she worried, visualizing the baying Rottweilers following her scent into the woods. _What if they set the hounds on me? _

Utter blackness enveloped her, only to be rent instants later by another blazing shaft of lightning. The shadows lifted, leaving Spencer somewhere else. Another time, another place. Sh_e ran barefoot through the immense black forest, hearing her pursuers crash through the dense brush behind her. Looking back, she glimpsed them faintly in the foggy night: shadowy figures weaving through the evergreen tree trunks, flecks of moonlight glinting on exposed pieces of chain mail and plate armour. She felt woefully naked and defenceless compared to the warlike figures. They burst from the swirling white mist, brandishing crossbows loaded with deadly silver. Heartless dealers in death, they bounded and dodged around the bushy pines and firs, racing to catch Spencer in their lethal sights. Multiple whooshing noises sliced through the night, and volleys of solid-silver crossbow bolts whistled past her shoulder, narrowly missing her, and sank deep into the trunk of a sturdy pine only a few paces away. The argent sheen of the deadly shafts filled her soul with fear and revulsion. An angry snarl built at the back of her throat. A savage part of her soul yearned to turn and face her oppressors, to meet arms and armour with unleashed tooth and claw, but she knew she was too weak, too depleted by torture and captivity. Another time, she vowed. Another night. For now, she could only run and run, ducking the barbed silver missiles that hurled past her ears…_

Spencer flinched, half expecting to see a bloody arrowhead protrude from her chest. Then the darkness fell and lifted again, bisected by another blinding flash of lightning, and she found herself back in the rainy woods. She looked about in confusion. There were no silver crossbow bolts, no shadowy archers, only the angry barking of the guard dogs, which diminished in volume as she steadily distanced herself from the nameless mansion and its surrounding estate. The mountainous pines, with their bristling needles, once more had become the denuded, leafless oaks and beeches from before.

_What's happening to me?_ she fretted. Nothing made sense anymore, not even the febrile imaginings of her own mind. Her wounded shoulder throbbed in sync with her racing heartbeat. She shivered uncontrollably, from both the cold and a mounting sense of extreme dread. Murderous kidnappers and gangsters were bad enough, but now even her own senses were betraying her. _I don't understand any of this,_ she thought, staggering through the unfamiliar woods without any idea of how far she was from Budapest and everyday life as he knew it. _Am I going insane?_

Aiden turned away from the open window. Ashley could tell from the sour, truculent look on Aiden's face that Spencer had somehow gotten away—from Aiden and the Rottweilers alike. She was overcome with relief, which she did her best to conceal from Aiden. The imperious vampire regent was in a bad enough temper as it was. _Damn Aiden and his infernal jealousy,_ she cursed silently. _It's not as if I've ever encouraged his amorous attentions! _Madison cowered apprehensively near the door, no doubt fearful that Aiden would blame her for the human's escape. Ashley suspected that the lissom maidservant had little to fear; Aiden's dire wrath appeared directed at Ashley alone.

"Leave us!" he snapped at Madison, who readily complied by darting out the door, leaving Ashley alone with the de facto master of the mansion. Ashley faced him, unafraid. She was fully prepared to accept the consequences of having brought Spencer to Ordoghaz, but she was not about to apologize for her actions, let alone appeal for forgiveness. Spencer was vastly important somehow, and not just to her, no matter what Aiden might think. _The safety of this coven is my only concern,_ she asserted inwardly. _Or am I protesting a bit too much? _Aiden crossed the floor to where she was standing. His smouldering eyes glared crossly into hers. Ashley maintained a stony, resolute expression, ready for whatever threats and ultimatums the other vampire had in store. A simmering moment passed, and Aiden opened his mouth to begin his tirade. Ashley tensed in anticipation, but, at the last second, Aiden suddenly changed his mind—and viciously backhanded her instead.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter Thirteen**_

A ceramic bust, bearing a notably feral expression, snapped out from beneath an ornate concrete pillar. _Blam-blam-blam!_ The sculpture exploded into hundreds of white shards as a burst of rapid gunfire blasted it apart. Scowling, Ashley waited impatiently for another target to present itself. A whiff of gunpowder rose from the smoking muzzle of a brand-new Beretta automatic. Her face still smarted where Aiden had slapped her. She had hoped to blow off steam here at the firing range, but so far she felt as irate as before. Only a fierce determination not to stir up more trouble and division had kept her from returning Aiden's blow with her own hand. _We can't afford to turn on each other right now,_ she reasoned, _not with the lycans plotting something dire._

Another ceramic target peeked out from behind a metal facade. This one bore the bestial features of a semi-transformed female lycan. Ashley efficiently shot it to pieces, firing continuously until the Beretta's slide snapped back. She swiftly ejected the empty ammo clip, grabbed a fresh one, and angrily slammed it into her gun. An amused chuckle came from behind her. "Sure hope you never get pissed off at me," Sean said.

The weapons master stood a few meters back from the firing range, observing her practice session with friendly interest. Ashley almost smiled but kept her gaze fixed on the far end of the range. Her finger tensed upon the trigger. She was fully prepared to blast apart every ersatz lycan in the dojo if that was what it took to get past the memory of Aiden's infuriating slap. _I can't believe he dared to take a hand to me! I've killed more lycans in the last few years than he has for centuries…_

"Hold on," Sean said, before the next target could claim her attention. "Check this out." Ashley reluctantly holstered her gun and turned toward Sean. The African immortal tugged a wicked-looking pistol from his belt and handed it to her. She balanced it in her grip, testing its weight. A serviceable weapon, she judged, uncertain what was so special about it. Sean tapped his boot down on a scuffed green button built into the floor. The remote mechanism triggered the appearance of another ceramic target at the far end of the firing range. Sculpted marble fangs accentuated a frozen snarl. "Go ahead," he said. "Squeeze off a few."

_With pleasure,_ Ashley thought, needing no urging to fire upon the lycanthropic simulacra. _Blam-blam-blam!_ A tight grouping of bullet hits cratered the target. To her surprise, a shiny metallic liquid oozed from the ceramic wounds, like blood from a shattered skull. "Eject the mag," Sean instructed. Intrigued, Ashley did so quickly. Her eyes lit up. The bullets in the magazine were identical to the lycans' new ultraviolet rounds, except that these were filled with a lustrous metallic fluid. "You've copied the lycan rounds," she realized. Sean grinned proudly. She removed one of the liquid-filled bullets and rolled it between her fingers. "Silver nitrate?"

"A lethal dose," he confirmed. "Excellent," she declared, her mind swiftly grasping the distinct advantages of this new form of ammo. "So they won't be able to dig the silver out as they do with our normal rounds."

"Straight into the bloodstream," Sean said with a smirk. Ashley foresaw a welcome increase in lycan fatalities. "Nothing to dig out." She handed the gun back to him. "Does Aiden know about this?"

"Of course," Sean answered, as if puzzled by her question. "He approved it."

Ashley was relieved to hear that Aiden was taking some interest in the war against the lycans. She assumed Sean had presented the idea to Aiden while she'd been tracking down Spencer Carlin in the city. _If only I could convince Aiden how important Spencer is! _She watched, lost in thought, as Sean fiddled with his ingenious new brainchild. He racked the slide back, removed the barrel, and proceeded to examine the rifling.

Ashley leaned pensively against the wall, recalling Aiden's odd remark earlier that evening. "Tell me, Sean," she asked after a moment. "Do you believe Glen died the way they say he did?" Sean's grin widened. "Aiden been telling war stories again?" As far as he and most of the other Death Dealers were concerned, Aiden had been coasting on his celebrated victory for nearly six hundred years. "That's my point," she insisted. "It's nothing but an ancient story. His story. There's not a shred of proof that he actually killed Glen. Only his word." The scornful tone in her voice made it clear how little she thought Aiden's word was worth. The implied accusation got Sean's attention. His amiable grin faded, and he shot her a deadly serious look. "Raife believed him," he reminded her, lowering his voice. "And that's all that matters." He carefully put aside the disassembled pieces of his gun and eyed her warily. "Now, where are you going with this?" She had no immediate answer for him, only a vague, unsettling suspicion that Aiden was not telling her everything. Perhaps his unrelenting hostility to her investigation was based on more than mere jealousy? "Nowhere," she muttered finally, not wanting to burden Sean with her as yet unsupported misgivings. Shrugging casually, as though the matter was of little import, she drew her Beretta and turned back toward the firing range. Her toe tapped the button triggering the targets. Another ceramic bust popped up. Ashley envisioned Aiden's spiteful, arrogant expression as she mercilessly shot the target to pieces. It didn't make her feel any better. 

The incessant rain was not improving Aiden's disposition. A never-ending trickle of cold water ran down the back of his neck as he and Soren lurked in the shadows of a dismal alley in one of central Pest's less savoury neighbourhoods, only a few blocks away from the hooker-infested fleshpots of Matyas and Rakoczi Squares. Broken glass and cigarette butts littered the cracked pavement beneath his feet. Political slogans and vulgar obscenities defaced the sooty stone walls of the alley, while several meters behind him, churning rainwater cascaded over the side of a graffiti-ridden concrete overpass.

The only good thing about the miserable weather, Aiden reflected, was that it had emptied the adjoining avenues of unwanted tourists, carousers, and street trash. Even Budapest's growing population of homeless indigents appeared to have sought drier domiciles elsewhere. _Good,_ he thought sourly. He hunched beneath his black leather coat, keeping his face hidden behind his collar like a turtle retreating halfway into its shell. _The fewer eyes that witness tonight's rendezvous, the better._

The bells of a nearby clock tower rang out, tolling the hour. Aiden glanced impatiently at his own wristwatch. It was nearly ten p.m. "Where the devil is he?" he muttered to the muscular, black-clad vampire standing beside him. Soren shrugged his shoulders. He maintained a tight lookout over the alley and environs, alert to any hint of treachery. Aiden was glad to have the wary bodyguard along on this outing but was anxious to return to Ordoghaz as quickly as possible. He didn't want to give Ashley cause to question his absence.

More rain worked its way beneath his collar, chilling his already lukewarm flesh. Aiden was about ready to say the hell with it, to give up and go home, when an ominous black limousine pulled to the curb of the dimly lit street beyond the alley. _About time,_ Aiden thought indignantly. His simmering resentment masked a deeper unease. Glancing about furtively, he slunk from the alley, shadowed by Soren. A dark-skinned figure emerged from the driver's seat of the limo. Aiden recognized Clay, a particularly savage specimen of the wolfen breed. The beefy lycan appeared none the worse for being sliced up by Ashley's silver throwing stars the night before. _A pity,_ Aiden thought. He had never liked Clay. Soren and Clay exchanged hostile glares. Two of a kind, after a fashion, the lethal warriors hated each other intensely; they were both eagerly waiting for an opportunity to settle which of them was more dangerous. Aiden's money was on Soren, merely by virtue of the innate superiority of vampire over lycan, but he had no intention of letting Soren off his leash tonight. Matters were far too delicate already.

Clay opened the limo's rear door and gestured for Aiden to get inside. Aiden swallowed hard, unable to conceal his apprehension entirely, and slid into the back seat of the car. As Clay closed the door, Aiden could not resist looking back to make sure Soren was still there. Then the door slammed shut, cutting him off from his imposing bodyguard. _Chin up,_ he reminded himself, striving to bolster his spirits. _Show no weakness. It is not I who need fear the outcome of this meeting. I have nothing to apologize for. _His throat tightened nonetheless.

The interior of the limo was dark and musky. The flickering light of a nearby street lamp feebly penetrated the tinted black glass of the limo's privacy windows. Through the darksome glass, Aiden glimpsed Soren and Clay taking positions at opposite ends of the limo. They glowered at each other mutely, immortal soldiers nursing their bitter rivalry beneath the driving rain. Aiden reluctantly looked away from the windows, turning his attention to the business at hand. More nervous about this encounter than he cared to admit, even to himself, he immediately went on the offensive. "Engaging Death Dealers in public and chasing around after some worthless human was not what I had in mind!" he protested brusquely, mustering an impressive show of justifiable indignation. Cold, wet, and dishevelled, he let his physical discomfort fuel the umbrage in his voice. "You were told to set up shop and lie low," he continued, "not—"A hand exploded from the darkness of the seat beside him, clutching Aiden by the throat and cutting off his tirade.

A black-clad figure leaned toward Aiden, his narrowed eyes showing little patience with the soaking vampire's histrionics. "Calm yourself, Aiden," Glen said. As always, his crest-shaped pendant glittered upon his chest; Aiden had never seen him without it. The lycan's fingernails elongated, becoming razor-sharp claws digging into Aiden's flesh. The vampire winced in pain, even as he tried unsuccessfully to yank his throat free from Glen's powerful grip. He struggled to speak but could scarcely breathe. Glen tightened his grip, choking Aiden even harder. "The human doesn't concern you," the lycan said calmly, as though he weren't throttling Aiden at this very moment. "And besides," he added with a wolfish grin, "I believe I've lain low for quite long enough." He released his grip at last. Gasping, Aiden fell backward against the padded back of his seat. He glared balefully at Glen with blood-tinged eyes. Not for the first time, he rued ever entering into an alliance with this loathsome subhuman beast. _Someday you'll pay for this effrontery,_ he promised silently. Too much was at stake to jeopardize their grand endeavour now. _But someday, and soon…_

Recovering his breath, he did what he could to reassert his dignity. "Keep your men at bay, Glen. At least for the time being." Glen needed to be reminded that he was merely Aiden's partner, not his superior. "Don't force me to regret our arrangement." Glen chuckled, clearly unimpressed by Aiden's bravado. His nails retracted back to human proportions as he subjected the petulant vampire to a withering stare. "You just concentrate on your part," he instructed, his tone brooking no disagreement. "Remember, I've bled for you once already. Without me, you'd have nothing." His fearless gray eyes dared Aiden to dispute him. He spoke slowly, underlining his words for emphasis. "You'd be… nothing."


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

The musty atmosphere of the archive hall felt heavy with the weight of ages. Dark oaken bookshelves sagged beneath countless volumes of forgotten lore and history. Illuminated manuscripts, painstakingly illustrated and copied by medieval monks, shared the overcrowded shelves with the abundant literary fruits of post-Gutenberg generations. Leather-bound memoirs, histories, and codexes were packed two deep in places or piled high upon the floor in tottering stacks that threatened to topple over at any minute. Dusty artefacts—souvenirs from bygone centuries—were scattered here and there among the copious written records: a ceremonial brass chalice from the thirteenth century, the curved scimitar of a long-dead Ottoman prince, an embossed silver plate commemorating the epic Battle of Vezekeny in 1654, a filigreed golden sceptre bearing the royal crest of Transylvania—all precious relics from nearly nine hundred years of vampire history.

Ashley had the secluded library all to herself. No surprise there; Aiden and his hedonistic entourage were more interested in present pleasures than the accumulated debris of the past. Dust and cobwebs frosted the archaic tomes, testifying to how seldom the archive was visited by Ordoghaz's sybaritic inhabitants. Even the manor's myriad chambermaids seldom entered these cloistered chambers. As a rule, the servant girls had been selected more for their alluring faces and figures and compliant dispositions than for their diligence. _Just as well,_ Ashley thought. She had serious research to do and no desire to be interrupted. Her eyes scanned the bulging bookshelves, looking for the specific records she required. Still clad for battle, she stalked the library in her muddy leathers.

Outside, the storm was still going strong. Rain pelted the library's lancet windows, causing watery shadows to dance eerily upon the walls. Her gaze fell on the rectangular pine door of an inconspicuous closet, tucked between two looming oak bookcases. In truth, it had been at least seventy years since she had consulted these archives herself, but she dimly recalled that the chronicles covering the early decades of the war were kept in this long-abandoned closet. In theory, the information she sought would be there.

She jiggled the antique crystal doorknob, only to find the closet door locked. _Of course,_ she thought, scowling. Heaven only knew what had become of the key. Unwilling to be thwarted so quickly, she drew back her leg and—_ka-boom!_—kicked the obstinate door right off its hinges. Dusty light poured into the interior of the closet, exposing its contents for the first time in uncounted generations. Ashley smiled as she spotted several dozen ponderous tomes, locked away behind a thick glass case just as she remembered. _Eureka,_ she thought.

The cabinet inside the closet was unlocked, sparing further vandalism, and Ashley sifted through the enclosed volumes, peering closely at their timeworn spines and covers. Selecting four or five of the most promising candidates, she carried the heavy texts over to a Victorian-style maple table resting in the center of the library. She blew decades' worth of dust off both the books and the table before sitting down to inspect the ancient chronicles. In an ideal world, she would peruse the texts at leisure, carefully reading each and every word. She sensed, however, that time was running out, so she flipped briskly but gently through the dry and crumbling pages, searching urgently for the answers she hungered for.

Columns of intricate calligraphy were accompanied by faded etchings depicting scenes from the long crusade against the werewolves. At first, Ashley nodded in approval at portraits of medieval Death Dealers riding to battle, the martial tableaux filling her undead heart with pride. Yet, as she continued to peruse the elaborately detailed woodcuts, she was disturbed to see several illustrations that more closely resembled massacres than honest warfare. Ghastly images, worthy of Dore, portrayed captive beast-men and -women (recognizable by their shaggy coats and canine paws) being tortured and burned at the stake by her armoured ancestors. Half-human whelps were hurled like fuel onto the rising flames or else were crushed beneath the silver-shod hooves of the Death Dealers' steeds, their childish proportions no protection against the merciless vampire warriors.

Even over the gulf of centuries, the fear and anguish of the forsaken lycans came across loud and clear. Frowning, she turned the page, only to encounter an equally unsettling illustration that showed chained lycans, both male and female, being forced to their knees and branded like cattle. Leering Death Dealers, brandishing vicious pikes and crossbows, looked on as red-hot silver was applied to the unfortunate lycans, burning the emblems of their captors into their very flesh. "What are these?" Ashley gasped out loud, recoiling from the grisly images. _Ancient myths? Medieval propaganda? _She ran her finger down the yellowing parchment, trying to find some explanation for the book's unsettling illustrations. Her ivory brow furrowed as she struggled to decipher the adjacent text. Unfortunately, the scribbled chicken scratches appeared to be written in an archaic form of Magyar, which was somewhat beyond her abilities. She gazed in frustration at the tiny, indecipherable calligraphy, which was cleverly interlaced with rows of miniature sketches, which matched the brands being burned onto the flesh of the various howling lycans. Perhaps, she speculated, these pages constituted a catalogue of the individual brands.

Peering more closely at the mysterious symbols, she couldn't help observing that although the brands varied slightly from illustration to illustration, they all had been designed around one of three ornate capital letters: _R, C,_ or _A._ Just like the insignia on the tombs of the Elders. Raife, Christine, and Arthur. Despite her snug new leathers, a shiver passed through Ashley. Her mind fleeing from the distressing implications of the medieval woodcuts, she put the incriminating tome aside and reached for a different book. To her relief, this book was written in simple Old English. Flipping through it, however, she discovered that many of the entries and illustrations had been blacked out with liberal applications of impenetrable India ink.

Furthermore, dozens of pages appeared to have been torn out and discarded. She raised the book off the table and turned it over experimentally; none of the missing pages came falling out. _Interesting,_ Ashley thought, her suspicions aroused. Why had someone gone to such efforts to cover up the past? What dark secret was being concealed?

Leafing through the plundered volume, she came across a portrait of a solitary male lycan, his lupine claws extended at his side. Intriguingly, the lycan's face had been completely burned away, leaving a circular gap near the top of the etching. Ashley examined the mutilated portrait more carefully. Visible on the faceless lycan's right arm was an elaborate cattle brand incorporating a large capital _R. R as in Raife,_ she thought unwillingly. A charred caption beneath the portrait read: "Glen, scourge of immortals, master of the lycan horde." Ashley smiled grimly. _Now we're getting somewhere,_ she thought. This was what she had been looking for.

Beneath Glen's defaced portrait was another etching, depicting a heated battle between armed vampires and lycanthropes. Vampires armed with silver swords and crossbows took on a snarling pack of both humanoid and wolfen lycans, with each side inflicting grievous harm upon the other. Shrieking lycans, their bestial faces contorted in agony, were impaled three or four deep on the silver lances of vampire cavalrymen, while elsewhere on the page, fully transformed werewolves tore unlucky vampires asunder with their dagger-sized fangs and claws. In the background, smoke and fire belched into the night sky from the mouths of several remote mountain caves. An overhanging moon, bearing the features of an outraged werewolf, looked down on the bloody scene with murder in its eyes.

Ashley recognized, from Aiden's egocentric recountings if nothing else, the crucial Battle of the Alps. Her finger tracked across the gutter of the book to the adjoining page: "Of the scores of brave souls who ventured into Glen's infernal fortress, only a single vampire survived: Aiden of Leicester, who was richly rewarded not only for setting the great blaze but for returning with tangible proof of the lycan master's demise: the branded skin, cut from Glen's arm." At the bottom of the page was what appeared to be a piece of dried brown leather, folded neatly into a square. The "tangible proof" mentioned above? Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Ashley carefully unfolded the paltry scrap of hide—to reveal the stylized letter R seared onto the fragment. She traced the brand with her fingertip, aware of the scrap's historic significance. This was no mere scrap of leather, it was a swatch of skin cut from the flesh of a fallen lycan. Her gaze jumped back to the faceless portrait at the top of the opposite page, comparing the brand on Glen's arm to the revolting fragment spread out before her.

The marks were identical. _How about that?_ she thought archly, uncertain whether to be relieved or disappointed that the archives confirmed Aiden's account of having disposed of Glen nearly six centuries ago, a momentous feat that had elevated Aiden instantly to the upper ranks of the coven. As much as she had hoped to catch Aiden in a lie, it was good to know that the infamous Glen was indeed well and truly dead. Or was he? Staring again at Glen's burned-out portrait, Ashley noticed a blackish smudge beneath the flaking hole where his face had been. Was there something beneath the ancient ashes? Wetting her fingertip, she gently rubbed away some of the loose charring, exposing a familiar-looking star-shaped pendant. _Bloody hell!_ She instantly recalled the identical pendant worn by the unnamed lycan who had stabbed her in the shoulder, nearly killing her, yesterday night. _I don't believe it,_ she thought, dumbfounded by her discovery. _Could that actually have been…Glen?_

If so, then Aiden's slip of the tongue earlier had been even more revelatory than she had feared—and her people's greatest enemy was still alive and well. She slammed the book shut, her every nerve vibrating with alarm. She needed to do something, tell someone, before it was too late. Glen, lord of the werewolves, was aprowl in the night—and he was after Spencer! She lurched out of her chair and whirled toward the exit. To her surprise, she found the ubiquitous Madison standing in the doorway. _Again?_ Ashley thought impatiently. _I need to fasten a bell to this inquisitive little domestic._

"I've been looking for you everywhere," the servant vamp explained, sounding a trifle put out. She glanced around the musty archive hall with disdain, as though no vampiress in her right mind would frequent such a tedious locale. _So what else is new?_ Ashley thought in response to Madison's complaint. "Not now," she said brusquely. If Glen were back and plotting against her coven, then appeasing Madison was the least of Ashley's concerns. She moved toward the exit, expecting Madison to step aside. Instead, a slim white arm shot out, blocking the doorway. "She's been bitten. Your human," the maidservant blurted. "She's been marked by a lycan." Ashley blinked in surprise. Was this some sort of twisted joke? Surely, Madison could not be serious. "Did Aiden put you up to this?" she asked suspiciously. "No!" Madison shook her head. "I saw the wound with my own eyes. I swear it!"

_Could she be telling the truth?_ Ashley's mind raced back to the night before, when she had rescued Spencer from that lycan (Glen?) at the apartment building. She remembered dragging Spencer out from beneath the lycan, after the wounded beast-man fell atop Spencer in the elevator. Had the lycan somehow managed to bite Spencer before she had extracted the panicked human from the stranger's grasp? Perhaps, she conceded reluctantly. In the speed and confusion of that hasty escape, anything was possible. Was Spencer now the enemy? Had the blonde been lost to her irrevocably? _No,_ Ashley decided abruptly. _I refuse to accept that._ Spencer was too important, to all of them, to give up on so readily. The thought of her becoming just another rapacious, subhuman monster tore at the brunette's heart in ways she could scarcely bring herself to comprehend. _One way or another, I'll find some way to save her._

She locked eyes with Madison, then shot a cool glance at the servant girl's outstretched arm. Wilting before Ashley's steely gaze, Madison lowered her arm and stepped aside, allowing Ashley to pass over the threshold into the corridor beyond. "But what about the Covenant?" Madison asked nervously as the other woman left the library behind. The inexperienced maid hardly needed to remind Ashley of the Covenant of the Blood. This was the sacred code by which the older vampiress had lived and hunted for her entire undead existence. To fear for the safety of one whom the wolves had claimed for their own went against everything Ashley had always believed and fought for. _I don't care,_ she thought, storming off toward the questionable privacy of her own quarters. Madison's plaintive wail followed her down the lonely corridor: "You know it's forbidden!" 

Dr. Adam Lockwood yawned as he made his rounds at the hospital. It was a busy night on the casualty ward, made all the worse for them being short-handed. For the hundredth time this evening, he wondered what had become of Spencer Carlin. The other American already had missed two shifts and failed to answer any of the supervisors increasingly urgent phone messages. _I hope she's all right,_ the overworked intern worried. _Spencer's always been so responsible before. _The antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital filled his nostrils as he walked through the ward on his way to the doctors' lounge. A fresh pot of coffee was calling his name, and Adam figured that a prompt infusion of caffeine was just what the doctor ordered. No stimulants were required to jump-start his heart, however, when the door to his right suddenly flew open and powerful hands grabbed him by the shoulders and physically yanked him into an empty examining room.

_What the hell?_ Adam tried to call out, but a sweaty palm clamped down over his mouth. _I don't believe this!_ he thought frantically. _I'm being mugged in my own hospital! _The door slammed shut, trapping Adam inside the room with his assailant. A hoarse voice whispered in his ear: "Don't be afraid. It's me, Spencer!" _Spencer? _The frightened doctor nodded, acknowledging the message, and the intrusive hand came away from his face. Adam resisted the urge to shout for assistance, electing to find out a little more about the situation before pushing the panic button. He owed Spencer that much, for friendship's sake. _Spencer is a good woman,_ Adam reasoned. _She can't possibly be dangerous… can she? _Another hand let go of his shoulder, and Adam slowly turned around to face his fellow resident.

Moonlight entered the exam room through a closed glass window, and Adam was shocked by what the eerie silver radiance revealed. Spencer looked like hell. She was still clad in the same bloodstained jacket and pants she'd been wearing the night before, after she got caught in that bloodbath in the Metro station. Mud and grass further stained the bedraggled garments, which looked as if they'd been dragged, along with Spencer herself, through some godforsaken war zone. Spencer's face was pale and slick with perspiration. Her eyes were bloodshot, and an ugly purple bruise besmirched her forehead. She shivered uncontrollably, her hands shaking like branches in a gale. Numerous small cuts and scratches went untreated on her face, neck, and hands, while livid black shadows hung beneath her manic blue eyes. She looked sick, feverish, out of control. Adam barely recognized the capable young doctor he had come to know over the last several months.

"For the love of God, Spencer, what's happened to you?" Spencer's explanation, such as it was, did not reassure the other doctor, who listened with mounting alarm as his distraught colleague launched into a bizarre, irrational story of car chases, shoot-outs, levitating women, attack dogs, and growling monsters on the roof. It was totally preposterous, yet Spencer seemed scarily sincere, describing each nightmarish event with paranoid intensity. She paced erratically as she spoke, tracking back and forth across the room like a caged animal. "And ever since he bit me," she insisted, "I've been having these, I dunno what you'd call them…hallucinations, delusions?" she stared inwardly at hellish sights only she could perceive. "All I know is that it feels as if my skull is splitting in half."

Adam tried to keep up with the outré narrative. "A full-grown man bit you?" Spencer tugged down her collar, exposing an appalling-looking bite wound on her right shoulder. Stepping forward to take a closer look, Adam saw that the wound consisted of four deep puncture marks in Spencer's well-developed trapezius. To Adam's dismay, the area around the bite was hot and discoloured; the site was very obviously infected. "Sure it wasn't a dog?" Adam asked. He peered at the marks through the smudged lenses of his glasses. From the bite radius, he guessed a largish hound was responsible. A Great Dane, perhaps, or a German Shepherd. Spencer angrily swatted his hand away. "I said it was a man!" Adam backed away warily, startled by the woman's violent outburst. "Okay!" he said, in the same placating tone he used with grieving relatives and strung-out drug addicts. "But you're the one talking about hallucinations here, not me."

Spencer sagged visibly, as though her momentary flare-up had exhausted her. Wondering once more if he should call security, Adam cautiously guided Spencer over to the exam table. A nearby desk and clothes cabinet completed the room's meagre furnishings. "Come on, take a seat." Paper crinkled as Spencer grudgingly complied. She sat sideways on the padded table, her legs dangling several centimetres above the floor. She looked calmer now, but Adam was still shaken by Spencer's disturbing behaviour a few moments ago. _She's not herself tonight, that's for certain. _Summoning up his most soothing bedside manner, Adam timidly approached Spencer again, taking a closer look at the swelling purple bruise on the injured resident's forehead. "Nice," Adam observed sarcastically. "From the looks of this, I'm betting you have a mild concussion." He feared, however, that a concussion was the least of Spencer's problems. _ Is she on drugs?_ Adam wondered. Spencer hadn't seemed like the type, but you never knew. It dawned on Adam that he knew very little about Spencer's life away from the hospital. _Why were those policemen so interested in her yesterday?_

Removing a digital thermometer from the pocket of his lab coat, the lanky doctor inserted the instrument into Spencer's ear. Meanwhile, Spencer grabbed some medicinal supplies off the nearby table and began dabbing the infected bite marks with an alcohol swab. Judging from the lurid discoloration around the puncture wounds, Adam guessed that alcohol wasn't going to be enough. Spencer probably was going to need antibiotics. "Concussion or not," Spencer rasped, "this guy was definitely after me, just like those cops…" Adam swallowed guiltily. He had just been thinking the same thing—about the police officers, that is. Was Spencer in trouble with the law somehow? Did she have something to do with the gunfight in the underground? _Hard to believe, _he thought. Then again, he had never seen Spencer look or act like this before. The thermometer beeped electronically, and Adam withdrew the device from his patient's ear. His vague misgivings about Spencer's recent activities were displaced momentarily by his shock at the young woman's temperature, which was an alarming forty degrees Celsius. "Jesus Christ," he blurted. "You're burning up." But Spencer was too caught up in her clayed, delusional narrative to react to Adam's pronouncement. He rambled morosely as he applied a dab of ointment to her shoulder and began bandaging the wound there. "And the woman from the subway, Ashley, I'm not sure, maybe…" Her red eyes took on a manic gleam as a hysterical edge crept into her voice. "Hell, for all I know, they were all in on it together!" She was definitely freaked out, Adam concluded, more than a little spooked by the way the other doctor was acting. "For heavens sake, Spencer," he exclaimed, hoping to yank the delirious resident back to reality. "In on what?"

"Haven't you been listening?" Spencer snapped. Adam backed away from the exam table. "She took me hostage!" _Sure she did,_ Adam thought sceptically. Chances were, Spencer's gun-toting mystery woman was just one of the hallucinations she'd mentioned. _This is more than I can deal with on my own,_ Adam decided, glancing at the door. _ She's too far gone ._"All right, all right," he said, humouring Spencer. "Calm down. I'm going to help you get this all sorted out."

He edged slowly toward the exit, but his attempted departure provoked Spencer, who lunged off the table and grabbed the doctor tightly by the arm. Adam's heart pounded wildly as he suddenly feared for his life. "Whoa! I'm just going to run to my office and grab a number." _ Please,_ he thought, scared to death of his fellow resident. _Don't hurt me, I beg you!_ "A good friend of mine is a lawyer. He'll know what to do." Would Spencer buy this? Adam held his breath, waiting anxiously for the agitated woman's reaction. An endless moment passed, during which time Adam's life and semi-promising career passed before his eyes, before Spencer finally let go of his arm and slumped back against the exam table. "Sorry," she apologized weakly. "I'm just…"An overpowering sense of relief left Adam weak at the knees. _That was close,_ he thought, exhaling at last. Spencer was clearly out of control; she might be capable of anything. _I must be crazy staying alone with her in here. I need to get help—stat! _"Its okay," he assured Spencer, flashing a reassuring (and entirely fraudulent) smile. Once again, he backed slowly for the door. His fingers groped clumsily behind his back for the doorknob. "Relax. I'll be right back, I promise." He fully expected Spencer to pounce on him like a madman the moment he turned the knob, but to his blissful surprise, the clayed resident actually permitted him to slip out the door into the hallway.

Adam gently pulled the door shut again, wishing he had a key with which to lock it, before allowing all his pent-up fear and anxiety to leave him shaking and pale outside the exam room. _I made it!_ he thought, gasping in relief. _Thank God!_ Beneath his lab coat, a layer of cold sweat glued his white cotton shirt to his spine. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to recover from the psychological strain of his nerve-racking encounter with Spencer before fishing around in his pockets for the card those two policemen had left with him yesterday. Where the heck had he put it, anyway? Ah, there it was. Drawing his cell phone, he hastily dialled the number on the card.

The two officers, Pierce and Taylor, arrived with surprising speed, less than ten minutes after receiving Adam's call. _Whatever they want Spencer for,_ the doctor deduced, _it must be serious._ He felt certain that he had made the right decision in contacting the police. "Thank you for coming," he murmured to the uniformed officers. He kept his voice low, just in case Spencer was listening. Throughout the ward, puzzled nurses and patients watched curiously as he guided the cops toward the examination room now occupied by the agitated intern. "I don't know what's the matter with her," Adam babbled fretfully. "I've never seen her like this before." The burly officers nodded brusquely, striding toward the closed door with their hands on the grips of their pistols. Adam hoped they wouldn't be too rough on Spencer, whatever trouble she was in. _I probably should notify the American embassy,_ he thought, _unless the police usually handle that._ He wasn't exactly sure about the procedure. They were almost at the exam room when a loud crash came from the other side of the door. Glass shattered noisily, electrifying Pierce and Taylor, who sprang immediately into action. Guns drawn, they charged the door, slamming it open with their shoulders. Adam followed them, prudently keeping a safe distance behind the cops. He flinched in anticipation of violence and gunplay, but the only sound that came from the besieged exam room was the mournful keening of the wind. _I don't understand,_ he thought. He had been watching the door the whole time he'd been waiting for the police to arrive. Spencer couldn't have got away. _And what was that crashing sound? _He peeked sheepishly through the doorway into the examination room. Wind and rain entered through a broken window at the far end of the room. The taller of the two policemen, Pierce, ran to the window and peered through the empty pane at the street below. Scowling, he turned toward his partner and shook his head. Adam guessed that Spencer was nowhere to be seen. The frustrated cops glared at Adam. "She was right here!" the doctor insisted. He threw his hands in the air, pantomiming helplessness. _It's not my fault,_ he thought defensively, _if your prime suspect jumps out the window. I'm lucky she didn't attack me, given her deranged state of mind!_

Pierce and Taylor exchanged ill-tempered looks, then thundered out of the empty exam room, ignoring Adam completely as they shoved past the doctor on their way out. A cold wind blew against Adam from the broken window, and he pulled the door shut to cut off the draft. He watched the policemen depart, disturbed by the unconcealed fury he had glimpsed in the men's dark eyes. "Hey!" he called after them. He hurried to catch up with the cops before they left the building. "You're not going to shoot her, are you!"

Spencer waited until she heard Adam's footsteps recede into the distance, then warily opened the door of the cabinet. Taking care not to rattle the metal clothes hangers dangling around her head and shoulders, she peered through a crack-sized opening at the moonlit exam room. A flash of lightning outside exposed every shadowy corner of the room. _The coast looks clear,_ she decided. Grateful that both Adam and the police had fallen for her trick with the window, she slipped stealthily out of the cabinet onto the tile floor of the examination room. She looked around apprehensively, wondering how long she had before someone decided to check this room again. _I have to get out of here, but to where? _Going to the police was out. According to Adam's message yesterday, the local cops already suspected that she had something to do with that bloody gunfight in the subway—and Spencer wasn't sure she could convince them otherwise, given everything that had happened to her since. She appeared to be right in the middle of this murderous mess, whatever it was all about.

The American embassy, over at Liberty Square, was no good, either. If even Adam thought she was crazy, what would the sensible folks at the U.S. embassy think when she tried to explain what had happened to her? _Hell,_ Spencer thought, _even I'm starting to question my own sanity! _Nausea struck her, and she bent over convulsively, clutching at her gut. She clenched her jaw tightly shut to keep from vomiting and fought like mad to ride out the seizure. Sweat beaded on her forehead while her insides felt as if they were turning inside-out. _Jesus Christ, what's wrong with me?_ Spencer wondered in anguish. None of her hard-won medical training pointed her toward a reasonable diagnosis for her condition. Her vision flickered in the moonlight, briefly going colour-blind before reverting to normal again. Her infected shoulder throbbed in sync with dreadful pounding inside her skull. Her teeth ached within her gums, as if they were being twisted out of shape. But she was more than just physically ill. She was going crazy, too. Phantom warriors, wielding silver crossbow bolts, lurked at the fringes of her vision. Fragmentary impressions and images that had no relation to the life she remembered were shuffled in among her memories like an extra ace in some devious card trick. She closed her eyes for an instant, and she was back in that primeval forest again, being chased through the moonlit woods by shadowy figures in chain mail and armor. _That's not me!_ she thought violently. _That never happened!_ But she could still feel the spongy forest floor beneath her bare feet, smell the sap flowing through the trees, as she ran for her life through that murky sylvan dreamscape. The cursive brand on her arm burned like a red-hot flame. She tasted her own blood upon her tongue…_I'm sick,_ Spencer realized in despair. _I need help. _But whom could she turn to? In desperation, a face flashed across her memory. Inscrutable chestnut eyes beneath a mane of long curly hair. Skin as white as untouched snow. An exotic apparition, wild, mysterious, enticing…For better or for worse, there was only one person who might be able to see her through this nightmare. _Ashley._


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter Fifteen**_

Running water was said to be anathema to those of the vampire breed, but that was just a myth; otherwise, Ashley could not have enjoyed the much-needed shower now scouring her naked body with a steady blast of deliriously hot water. Billowing steam filled her private bathroom as the invigorating spray pelted her flesh, at long last washing away the sweaty, muddy, bloody residue of her ill-fated excursion to the city. Dirty water collected at the bottom of the pure white marble stall, circling the drain before disappearing into the mansion's plumbing. Ashley wondered how long it would take the bloody stream to reach the dank city sewers where she had battled those two lycans. _There's something down there,_ she knew in her heart. _Maybe an enormous pack of something. _Sadly, the scorching shower could not wash away the malignant fears troubling her mind. Was Glen alive? Aiden had accidentally referred to Glen in the present tense before, but did that prove Aiden knew about Glen's possible return? And what about Spencer? Was Madison telling the truth, had Spencer truly been conscripted by the enemy? _Please, no!_ she thought passionately. The soothing water rinsed the soap and shampoo from her dark hair and porcelain skin, but Ashley knew that she could not hide in the shower forever.

There were too many vital questions to be answered, and time was running short. _The Awakening is almost here,_ she recalled. _Christine and her entourage will be arriving after sunset tomorrow. _On what, thanks to an unlucky coincidence, just happened to be the first night of the full moon. Ashley shuddered at the thought of what that moon might bring, to Spencer as well as to the entire vampire nation. A desperate ploy came to mind, one that she ordinarily would have rejected as too extreme but which now struck her as the only option remaining to her. _I have to risk it,_ she decided. _ There's no other choice. _Reluctantly, she turned off the shower and let the last of the hot water trickle down her body. Stepping out of the stall into the luxury-sized bathchamber, she towelled herself quickly, then pulled on a dark blue cotton bathrobe. Steam clouded the queen-sized vanity mirror above the sink. Her mind made up, she strode decisively up to the sink and reached out to touch the foggy mirror. Her fingertip gently traced a string of letters across the glass: _RAIFE. _

She paused for a moment or two, humbled by the exalted name she had invoked. Then she wiped her hand across the mirror, erasing the message. "Please forgive me," she whispered, bowing her head in reverence. Although the mirror held only her own reflection, that was not at all whom she was addressing. She lifted her head, entreating the mirror with anguished eyes. "But I desperately need your guidance…" 

The taxi rushed down the lonely forest road, carrying Spencer back toward the manor. Night shrouded the skeletal oaks and beeches lining the road as she peered out the window of the cab, praying that she was remembering the directions right. Ashen and trembling, she slumped in the back seat, clutching a handful of fresh bills that she had extracted from an ATM back in the city. A map of the towns and villages north of Budapest was spread out on her lap. As far as she could tell, she was successfully retracing the route she had taken from the mansion back to the city earlier that night. _Szentendre,_ she reminded herself repeatedly, as though the name might slip out of her bruised and battered brain. _Ashley's mansion was just outside Szentendre…_

The taxi hit a pothole, and the bump caused Spencer's throbbing head and bones to protest forcefully. She hugged herself tightly, hoping she wouldn't be sick in the cab. The howling in her ears roared like an upset menagerie, and every glimpse of moonlight caused her teeth and gums to ache something fierce. The moon was almost full, she noticed, waxing brightly above the shadowy forest outside. _Am I doing the right thing?_ she worried. She remembered the savage Rottweilers baying at her heels and wondered if she was crazy to come within fifty miles of that creepy mansion again. Then she recalled Ashley's lovely face looking down at her, wiping her febrile brow with a damp rag, and realized she had nowhere else to go. _I just hope Ashley, whoever she is, is really on my side. _The cab's interior smelled of tobacco, beer, and goulash, which didn't do Spencer's queasy stomach any favours. She couldn't recall the last time she'd eaten, back before her life went insane, yet she still felt more nauseated than hungry. She struggled to keep her eyes open, afraid of the visions waiting in the darkness, but it was no good. A violent tremor shook her body, and her eyes rolled up inside her head, so that only the blood-streaked whites were visible.

_CRACK! A spinelike whip, seemingly forged of solid silver vertebrae, snapped out of the void. __ The gleaming whip lashed her head and shoulders, burning and stinging at the same time. The lash opened her flesh, causing hot blood to stream down her back, over countless overlapping layers of old scar tissue, before the scalding silver cauterized the freshly opened wound. Then the whip cracked again, and she felt its agonizing bite once more…_"No!" Spencer exclaimed. Her eyes rolled back to normal as she escaped the vivid hallucination. She reached instinctively for her back, to make sure the scars were strictly imaginary. _That felt so real,_ she thought, gasping, _as if the flesh were being flayed from my body! _"Are you all right, ma'am?" The cab driver, a chunky Armenian immigrant, glanced back over the seat. She looked as if she were having profound second thoughts about accepting the ailing young American as a fare. "You were having some kind of—how you say?—seizure?"

"I'm fine," Spencer lied. She nodded to assure the worried driver that she was okay, even though she felt anything but. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ she fretted anxiously. _I can't take this much longer! _

Perhaps Ashley could explain what was happening to her. If not, she wasn't sure what else she could do. She forcibly yanked her mind back into the present, away from silver whips and bloody torture, and tried to concentrate on the road ahead of her. An intersection approached, and Spencer groggily consulted the map on her lap. "Turn here," she instructed, gesturing toward the right. _Ashley has to be able to help me. She has to!_


	16. Chapter 16

_**AN – Hey, just wanted to say I've re-loaded some chapters as Sonja is now Kyla**__**. Also thank you very much again for all the reviews.**_

_**Chapter Sixteen**_

The guard looked up as Ashley entered the security booth, clad in a fresh set of slick black leathers. Watching over the crypt and its hibernating inhabitants was a tedious job, so no doubt he welcomed the unexpected company. _Careful, _Ashley warned herself. _Don't give away your intentions._

"Sean wants to see you," she said tersely. That got a reaction. Ashley knew that the guard, Duncan, had aspirations of rising in the ranks of the Death Dealers. He jumped up from his seat behind the security monitors, eager to report to the dojo upstairs. He halted at the exit, though, and glanced back uneasily at his post. "Don't worry," she told him. "I'll hold down the fort." He nodded gratefully and rushed out of the booth.

Ashley waited until his retreating footsteps completely disappeared before pressing an electronic button to open the entrance to the crypt itself. _I have to hurry,_ she thought. Duncan would soon discover that he had been tricked. She descended the timeworn granite steps to the sunken stone floor below. The temperature seemed to drop a couple of degrees with each step, so that her blood felt even colder than usual by the time she reached the bottom of the crypt. _Am I actually going through with this?_ she thought uncertainly, daunted by the sheer enormity of what she was contemplating. _Until tonight, I never would have dreamed of disturbing an Elder's sleep._

The crypt was hushed and dimly lit. Ashley's eyes penetrated the umbrageous twilight to focus on the three bronze hatches resting at the center of the bottom floors interlaced Celtic circles. Only two of the tombs were occupied, she knew. Christine's sarcophagus was empty awaiting the female Elder's arrival tomorrow night, when Arthur would emerge from his sepulchral resting place to take his turn as sovereign of all the covens of the world. At least, that was the plan. Ashley had other ideas. Ignoring the other two hatches, she went straight to the polished bronze circle marked by a stylized letter _R._ She knelt beside the tomb, hesitating only an instant before inserting her fingers into the cold metal groove surrounding the _R. _ Untouched for almost a century, the ancient hatch resisted her at first. Exerting her strength, however, she succeeded in rotating the circular bronze disk, which activated the dormant locking mechanism. The intricate designs adorning the hatch began to turn mechanically as Ashley heard the muted rumble of hidden machinery awakening from slumber.

The bronze hatch split apart into four triangular segments, exposing the sarcophagus beneath. The ponderous sound of stone sliding across stone violated the funereal stillness of the crypt. Ashley rose to her feet and, holding her breath, stepped back from the tomb. She was committed now. There was no turning back. Accompanied by the automated reverberation of a concealed motor, a large vertical slab rose from the floor like a coffin-sized elevator. The slab thrust upward until it was several centimetres taller than Ashley, then pivoted on its axis. Moving steadily, it snapped into place horizontal to the floor. A supine figure was laid out upon the slab. Ashley stepped toward the bier, suppressing a gasp at the shocking sight before her. After nearly one hundred years of unbroken slumber, Raife bore little resemblance to the regal monarch she remembered.

The skeletal figure on the slab looked more like a mummy than a vampire: dry, withered, and seemingly lifeless, like a collection of fragile bones shrink-wrapped in papery brown skin. His closed eyes lurked at the bottom of sunken black sockets, while his desiccated lips had peeled away from his gums, exposing yellowed fangs locked in a death's-head grin. Once-powerful limbs were now spindly sticks wrapped in jerkylike strips of meat, and his plunging abdomen had collapsed below the exposed ribcage. Black satin trousers spared her the sight of his shrivelled manhood. _Oh, my sire,_ she lamented, _what has your long repose done to you?_

Even though she had expected to find Raife in just this condition, the ghastly reality still came as a jolt. She had to remind herself that Raife had submitted to his interment willingly, as part of a hallowed tradition that stretched back through the ages.

The everlasting cycle of the Chain served two vital functions: first, as an ingenious power-sharing arrangement among the three Elders, avoiding conflict among them by ensuring that only one of them was in command in any given century; and second, to provide each Elder with a much-needed respite from the demands of eternity. "Immortality can be wearing," Raife had once explained to her, shortly before entering his tomb a century ago, "watching the never-ending tides of history ebb and flow, striving to keep up with the dizzying changes in science and civilization. Even the most resilient Elder feels the need to retire from the fray from time to time, to spend a century or two in silent repose, before rising to confront the future with renewed wisdom and clarity." That had been nearly one hundred years ago. Ashley shook her head, trying to reconcile the majestic immortal in her memory with the cadaverous figure upon the slab, which was disturbingly silent and immobile, its bony chest neither rising nor falling as the fleeting moments passed. If she hadn't known better, Ashley would have sworn that the apparent corpse on the slab was well and truly dead, beyond all hope of resurrection. Indeed, by the blinkered standards of modern medicine, Raife _was_ dead. But appearances could be deceiving. Gleaming copper implants mottled Raife's emaciated throat, the female components on an elaborate intravenous feeding system. More connections, she knew, were hidden beneath the comatose vampire's back, designed to sustain Raife during his centuries-long period of hibernation. The apparatus had kept him alive for ninety-nine years and exactly 364 days. Left undisturbed, it would preserve him for another century as well.

Ashley couldn't wait that long. _Quickly,_ she thought, knowing that Duncan could return at any minute. She tore her gaze away from Raife's seemingly lifeless carcass to inspect the meticulously crafted framework surrounding him. A series of shallow silver bowls were built into the raised edge of the sarcophagus, leading to a delicate metal spigot. Both the bowls and the spigot were carefully etched with precise calibrations, and a telescoping metal arm connected the apparatus, which was collectively known as the catalyst drip, to the bier itself. Trepidation warring with resolve, Ashley watched apprehensively as the metal spigot motored along the inside of the casket, positioning itself above Raife's mummified face. _Here comes the tricky part,_ she thought. To her knowledge, an awakening had never been attempted by one such as she. The Elders alone held the power to organize their thoughts and memories into a single, cohesive vision, forming a detailed record of their reign. Ashley could only hope that Raife would hear—and comprehend—her desperate plea. She unzipped her sleeve and raised her arm to her face. Her lips parted, exposing her fangs, and she took a deep breath. _Please let this work!_ she entreated. _The outcome of the war may depend on it. _Without further delay, she bit into her wrist, feeling her own deadly fangs slice through her ageless white skin. The sharp sting of the incision made her wince, and the briny taste of her own blood exploded upon her tongue, yet she resisted the urge to drink deeply of her crimson essence, just as she took care to cut only deeply enough to sever the veins, sparing the vital arteries buried further beneath her flesh. She needed only a tiny stream of blood for this solemn rite, not a spurting red geyser. Allowing herself only a sip of her cool vampire plasma, Ashley reluctantly pulled her wrist away from her blood-smeared mouth. _There's nothing like the real thing,_ she admitted with a stab of regret, _even when stolen from my own veins._ She had subsisted on sorry substitutes for far too long.

But her frustrated craving was not what mattered now. She held her wrist out over the leading bowl of the catalyst drip and squeezed the wound to hasten the flow. Dark venous blood spilled from her opened wrist into the shining bowl, beginning its slow and winding progression from bowl to bowl. An arcane chemical catalyst, absorbed via an osmotic filter at the base of each bowl, mixed with Ashley's shed blood to undergo a sublime alchemical transformation even as the thin red serum descended toward Raife's desiccated maw. Ashley peered ruefully at the crimson stream. She was all too aware that she lacked the mental strength and discipline to precisely regulate the flow of memories being carried by her blood. All she could do was watch the dark red fluid make its way toward the open spigot and pray that her entreaty had not been garbled too badly.

Leaving Raife and the equipment alone for a moment, she hurried across the bottommost floor to the rear of the crypt, where a sealed Plexiglas chamber lurked just beyond the subdued halogen lighting over the Elders' tombs. A pair of rectangular marble pillars framed the entrance to the sealed compartment, whose sterile, futuristic design contrasted sharply with the somber medieval majesty of the ancient crypt. This was the recovery chamber, employed only once every hundred years. The transparent Plexiglas walls were a new addition to the facility, part of a never-ending program to update and improve the chamber in accordance with the steady progress of technological innovation. The Elders demanded and deserved the best that modern science could provide, even if their memories extended profoundly back through history. Ashley rushed into the recovery unit and flicked on the lights. A wheeled metal gurney occupied the center of the room, surrounded by antiseptic chrome counters and sophisticated diagnostic monitors. A complicated array of plastic tubing dangled from the ceiling like a bizarre biomedical chandelier. Ducking her head beneath the overhead tubing, Ashley went straight for a refrigerated metal cabinet, whose locked door proved no match for her preternatural strength and determination.

Dozens of plastic IV bags filled with preserved human plasma and haemoglobin rested inside the cabinet, and Ashley helped herself freely to the supplies, piling them high atop a burnished steel counter next to the gurney. _Is this enough?_ she fretted, wishing she didn't have to figure all this out on her own. _Too bad Spencer isn't here,_ she thought wryly. The blonde was a doctor, after all, although Ashley seriously doubted that Spencer had ever taken part in a procedure like the one she was now attempting. 

While Ashley hastily prepared the recovery chamber, the first few drops of her catalyzed blood completed their circuitous journey through the sequence of bowls. A swollen scarlet bead dangled beneath the lip of the burnished copper spigot, the globule bulging in size until gravity finally wrested it from its precarious perch. The bright red droplet plummeted through space to land with a _splat_ upon Raife's cracked and arid lips. From there, it trickled over the brink into the yawning chasm between the mummy's lips, falling like rain upon the sere and barren landscape at the back of his throat. More bloody raindrops plunged from above, watering the inanimate tissues with miraculous results. Parched membranes greedily soaked up the magic elixir. Inert cells and corpuscles rose from the dead, pulsing back to life at a geometric rate. Dried veins and capillaries resumed their ancient duties, carrying Ashley's heartfelt libation deep into the petrified recesses of Raife's undead heart and mind, along with a flood of jumbled memories and images.

_Ashley, bathed in candlelight, her lovely face wan and bloodless, stands before a window, staring at her reflection. __ A pristine white nightgown is draped upon her shapely form. Her eyes wide, she tugs down the collar of her gown, inspecting the fresh bite wound on her slender throat: two livid red spots directly above her jugular. Her lower lip quivers tremulously as her slender fingers gingerly explore the wound. Her fear-stricken eyes are those of a traumatized innocent, quite unlike the hardened Death Dealer she would someday become. A shadowy figure, only dimly reflected in the glass, strolls up behind her, placing a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. Raife's hand, as yet untouched by time…_

The images came faster, burning past his mind's eye with blazing intensity. The memories were disordered, chaotic, and out of sequence, as though being fed to him by a clumsy amateur.

_Ashley stands before a foggy bathroom mirror, unintentionally echoing her pose from that night long past. Her dark brown hair is freshly wet from a shower. __ A dark indigo bathrobe partially conceals her moist, alabaster flesh…Three frenzied werewolves, their misshapen bodies bristling with pitch-black fur, charge down a dingy corridor faintly illuminated by sputtering electrical lights. Their yellowed fangs glint sharply beneath the fluorescent glow. Spume drips from the corners of their gaping jaws…Ashley and Aiden argue heatedly in a palatial suite. Their eternally youthful faces radiate extreme emotion and mutual contempt. Aiden raises his hand, which smacks against her ivory cheek like the lash of an angry whip…Back before her mirror, Ashley writes Raife's name across the befogged looking glass…_

The disjointed memories flickered and warped as they paraded frenetically across his consciousness. Waking slowly, he attempted to make sense of the confused images, but the kaleidoscopic barrage of visions defied his control.

_As Ashley looks on with disdain, Aiden presides over a sanguinary orgy in the grand salon. __ Supple vampiresses, in various states of dishabille, offer their exposed throats and breasts to Aiden, who greedily partakes of the proffered white flesh and crimson refreshment. A surfeit of blood trickles down his chin, staining his ruffled white tunic, as his sybaritic acolytes couple, triple, and even quadruple with abandon, turning the elegant salon into a scene of wanton debauchery. Discarded items of clothing, fashionably expensive and otherwise, litter the floor. Thirsty mouths seek out willing veins, so that every square centimetre of naked flesh receives the razor-sharp kiss of striking fangs. The collective essence of the cavorting vampires circulates through their intertwined bodies like the bloodstream of a single vast organism. Human slaves and initiates, imported at great expense from Budapest and beyond, season the licentious repast, adding an infusion of mortal heat to the cold-blooded sensuality of the undead. Slurping and sucking noises pervade the scene, punctuated by ecstatic grunts and moans…_

The voluptuous images stirred his own sluggish blood, but the choppy cascade of memories swiftly moved on, its relentless current carrying him elsewhere.

_A human youth, h__er hair and clothing drenched as from a heavy rain, rides an escalator down to a crowded subway platform…Raife's own body lies upon a padded bier, his undying flesh mummified by his long interment beneath the mansion…A woman's wrist—Ashley's—bleeds above the open bowl of the catalyst drip, beginning the time-honoured process by which she shares her turbulent memories with the body upon the slab…_

Enough. He froze the bleeding wrist within his mind. Exerting his returning powers of concentration, he halted the flood of fractured memories, then turned back the stream so that the preceding images zoomed by fleetly in reverse. He scanned Ashley's jumbled recollections, maintaining tight control over the visions, until he found the moment he sought, the one she had clearly wished him to experience.

_She stands once more before her bathroom mirror, entreating her reflection with anxious eyes. __ "Please forgive me," she says solemnly, "but I desperately need your guidance. I apologize for breaking the chain and awakening you ahead of schedule, but I fear we may all be in grave danger. Especially you, my lord, if left in your weakened state, for I believe the fearsome Glen is alive and well. Here. Now. In this very city, preparing to strike out at us during the Awakening." She swallowed hard, visibly troubled by this unnerving prospect, before speaking again. "Even more disturbing is the realization that, if I am correct in my suspicions, Aiden himself is in league with our greatest enemy."_


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter Seventeen**_

His face locked in a frozen scowl, Soren approached the security booth outside the crypt. Aiden had instructed him to make sure the Elders remained undisturbed, and Soren intended to take no chances. His already sullen expression darkened as he saw that the enclosed booth was conspicuously empty. _Where is the guard?_ he wondered right away, instinctively reaching for the 9mm P7 pistol holstered at his hip. _I don't like the look of this. _Eyes wary, he entered the booth. His meaty finger stabbed a button on the control panel, and he watched impatiently as the adjacent wall split in half, exposing the crypt itself to view. Peering through the thick transparent glass, he was both relieved and surprised to see that the crypt appeared undisturbed. The three bronze hatches marking the Elders' tombs rested securely in place, just as they had for very nearly a century. Puzzled, he looked around the booth, detecting no evidence of a struggle. Perhaps the missing guard was simply shirking his duties, slipping away to enjoy a furtive tryst with one of the servant girls? Soren sneered scornfully. Aiden would have the guard's hide for this breach of security, if Sean didn't get to him first. Not that it much mattered, Soren realized; after tomorrow night, everything would be different. And protecting the Elders no longer would be a cause for concern. 

Her back pressed tightly against the cold stone walls of the crypt, Ashley hid in the shadows just outside the circle of illumination cast by the soft halogen lights. She could see Soren prowling about the security booth, but, with luck, he wouldn't spot her, especially since the crypt appeared undisturbed. Thank heaven that she had returned the elevated slab and the bronze hatch to their usual locations before Soren arrived! Being surprised by Duncan would have been bad enough; the very last thing she needed was to be caught red-handed by Aiden's personal pit bull. There would be time enough to face the consequences of her drastic actions. For now, she had no desire to justify her decision to Aiden and his thugs. _I will answer to Raife himself when the moment of reckoning comes. _She held her breath while Soren stared suspiciously at the silent crypt. Would he discover her after all? Gruelling, seconds dragged on interminably until the ageless janissary finally turned away from the glass. He pressed a button on the control panel and a set of opaque faux-stone doors slid shut, hiding the interior of the crypt from view. Ashley expelled a sigh of relief. _That was a close one,_ she realized. She wondered how long she would have to hide in the shadows before it was safe to slip out of the crypt. It was, she conceded, a rather too apt situation for a vampire to be in. 

_Something stinks,_ Soren thought metaphorically. Even though there was no sign of any intruder, aside from the unexplained absence of the guard, the seasoned bodyguard remained on edge. Instincts honed over generations of service to the coven and its masters told him that there was trouble afoot. Vague misgivings nagged at his mind like the gnawing of phantom wolves. _Perhaps I should search the crypt by foot? _He reached for the control panel, intending to unlock the entrance to the crypt, only to be distracted by what he witnessed on one of the booths numerous surveillance monitors.

A taxi, of the sort routinely seen on the streets of Budapest, had pulled into the driveway outside the mansion's front gate. "What the devil?" he snarled. Christine and her entourage were not expected until tomorrow night at the earliest, so who the hell was this unexpected visitor? The crypt forgotten, Soren hastily tugged out his cell phone. Aiden needed to know about this—ASAP. 

"This is it," Spencer croaked hoarsely to the cab driver, confirming that they had reached the correct destination. The stolid Armenian cabbie eyed Spencer doubtfully in his rear-view mirror. He looked all too eager to unload his pale and dishevelled American passenger. Spencer couldn't blame him. _I must look like a mess,_ she realized, collapsed against the back seat of the cab. The rain earlier had washed most of the sludge and blood from her jacket and pants, but Spencer still felt badly in need of a shower, among other things. Her skin was clammy and slick with perspiration beneath her torn and rumpled attire. Her head felt as if a scalpel were jabbing into her brain, and painful spasms periodically wrenched her insides, causing her to clutch her stomach while groaning out loud. Feverish and light-headed, she forced herself to sit up and thrust a wad of pinkish-blue bills at the driver. She was probably overtipping the man egregiously, but Spencer didn't have the strength or the mental acuity to calculate the proper amount. "Thanks for the ride," she said weakly. Her breath came in halting pants as she laboriously climbed out of the taxi. The cabbie nodded brusquely, then wasted no time turning the yellow sedan around and accelerating back toward the main road, as if he couldn't wait to leave both Spencer and the mansion behind.

_Wonder if he knows something I don't,_ Spencer thought, watching the taxi's taillights disappear into the night, the fleeing cab trailing streamers of reflected yellow light over the rain-soaked asphalt. Tonight's nonstop deluge mercifully had faded to a slight drizzle, but Spencer's damp sneakers squished noisily as she reluctantly turned away from the outer limits of the driveway toward the forbidding cast-iron gates directly in front of her. Beyond the high spiked fence, the mysterious mansion loomed ominously, its Gothic turrets and battlements stabbing upward at the lightening night sky. Sharply pointed, arches and gables added to the manor's daunting façade. It looked like something out of _Dark Shadows,_ she thought, or maybe _The Rocky Horror Picture Show ._A layer of heavy fog blanketed the lawn outside the mansion. Spencer remembered running for her life across that very same lawn earlier tonight—had that really been only hours ago?—and wondered for the umpteenth time if she was making a terrible mistake coming back to the mansion of her own free will.

Baying Rottweilers, their jaws snapping at her heels, surged out of her memory, along with a hissing woman glued inexplicably to the ceiling. Spencer shuddered, unable to tell if it was fear or sickness that left her body trembling. _There's no turning back now,_ she reminded herself bleakly as she staggered toward the gate. The waxing moon peeked through the cloudy night sky, so blinding in its intensity that Spencer could not look at it directly. Its incandescent silver glow felt hot upon her face and hands. Every hair on her body rose as though electrified by the vibrant moonlight. _Please, Ashley!_ she thought desperately, unable to fathom the volcanic convulsions racking her mind and body. _Please be there for me!_ The enigmatic, dark-haired beauty was the only person Spencer knew who might be able to explain this waking nightmare—and help her find a way out of it. If there was a way. 

A gaggle of excited servant girls following in his wake, Aiden stormed into the viewing chamber. He ignored the mindless whisperings of Madison and her ilk, concerned instead with finding out why Soren had summoned him from upstairs. _It's nearly four am.,_ he fumed silently. _I had hoped to retire for the morning soon. _After all, he had an important night tomorrow. Soren spied him through the two-way mirror and quickly activated the automatic doorway, admitting Aiden to the security booth. The lord of the manor casually noted the absence of the usual guard but failed to see what might warrant his own presence in this morbid locale. "Well?" he demanded crossly. "What is so pressing?" Soren simply pointed at one of the black-and-white monitors mounted above the control panel. Aiden blinked in surprise at the sight of an unusually bedraggled-looking human female, perhaps twenty-five years old, peering stupidly into the security camera at the front gate. _Who?_ Aiden wondered in confusion. The face looked vaguely familiar, but the vampire regent felt certain that he had never met this mortal before. _What brings him to our door?_ Aiden frowned unhappily. The timing of the stranger's arrival, less than twenty-four hours before the Awakening, was singularly inauspicious. _Why here?_ he worried. _Why now?_

The vaulted sanctity of the viewing chamber was packed with chattering maidservants, competing to get a better glimpse of what was happening in the security booth. Ashley took advantage of the commotion to slip unnoticed out of the crypt into the crowded chamber outside. Her midnight-black fighting gear contrasted sharply with the flimsy frilly uniforms of the tittering servant girls, yet all eyes remained fixed on Aiden and his surly janissary, allowing Ashley to join the scene unnoticed, at least for the moment. _What's this all about?_ she thought, puzzled and concerned by Aiden's abrupt visitation. As far as she knew, her tampering with Raife's tomb remained undetected, but why else would Soren have alerted his heinous master? Part of her was tempted not to look a gift distraction in the mouth. _Just get out of here,_ she urged herself sensibly, _before Aiden finds out what you've done._ Another part of her, however, driven by an intuitive conviction that whatever was happening was vitally important, compelled her to edge slowly toward the open doorway to the security station. She shouldered her way through the clustered female domestics until only the ubiquitous Madison stood between her and the entrance to the booth. Ashley crept up behind the young vampiress, straining to see what exactly had Soren and Aiden up in arms. _Aiden almost never visits the crypt,_ she recalled. Doubtless, he disliked any reminder that he ruled the mansion only as Raife's surrogate. _ So what has lured him down here?_

But before she could catch a glimpse of the relevant security monitor, a distraught voice crackled over the loudspeaker in the booth: "Let me speak with Ashley!" Her eyes widened in alarm. Hoarse and ragged though it was, she instantly recognized Spencer's voice. _Bloody hell! Whatever possessed her to come back here? _

Shoving Madison aside, she rushed into the security booth, where her horrified eyes rapidly confirmed what her ears already had told her. There was Spencer, staring forlornly at her from the monitor. To her dismay, she saw that the blonde looked even more sick and panic-stricken than she had been many hours ago. _"She's been bitten, your human."_ Madison's shocking warning, delivered hours ago in the archive hall, flashed unwanted across Ashley's mind. _"She's been marked by a lycan." _Could it be true? Had Spencer been infected with Glen's foul contagion?

Aiden gave her no time to react. Quickly putting two and two together, he whirled around to confront her. His face was livid with rage, and he shook an accusing finger at the monitor. Descending raindrops streaked the image on the screen, like tears running down the human's face. "Is that Spencer?" The only good thing about Aiden's jealous pique was that it never occurred to him to question what Ashley was doing outside the crypt. Ignoring his outburst, she reached out and adjusted a digital WebCam mounted atop the control panel, turning the unblinking eye of the camera toward her. "Is it Spencer!" Aiden demanded, his voice rising to an intemperate pitch. _Of course it is,_ she thought acerbically. The real question was what she would do now. 

Shivering in the cold, Spencer stood in front of the remote-operated security camera, marching in place in a vain attempt to keep warm. The swirling gray fog seemed to soak into the very marrow of her bones, chilling her utterly, while she waited for somebody inside the mansion to notice she was there. Preferably, a certain gun-toting femme fatale of uncertain origin and intentions. _Ashley. How long am I going to stand out here, freezing my butt off?_ She hugged himself tightly, trying to keep her last vestiges of body heat from seeping out into the mist. Despite her impatience, she knew that she wasn't going anywhere until she found out whether Ashley was somewhere inside the spooky stone edifice on the other side of the locked iron gates. _Great,_ she thought sarcastically. _Now I'm a fugitive_ and _a stalker. _A blank electronic monitor above the camera flared to life abruptly, setting her heart racing. Her bleary eyes snapped open as Ashley's luminous features appeared on the monitor. _Thank God!_ she thought, lunging toward the elevated camera. Her shaking finger poked the talk button on the intercom. "I need to talk to you!" she shouted frantically into the speaker. A faint spark of hope flickered within her. "What the hell is going on? What's happening to me!"

Ashley leaned across the control panel toward the intercom. She pressed down on a button. "I'll be right out," she promised tersely. There was no time even to try to answer any of Spencer's anguished questions. She knew the blonde life depended on getting her away from Ordoghaz as quickly as possible. Even if Madison were wrong, and Spencer wasn't becoming a lycanthrope, Aiden's insane jealousy placed the unsuspecting human in mortal danger. "If you go to her," Aiden warned, drawing himself up like a rooster puffing out its chest, "by God, you'll never be welcomed in this house again!" Turning away from the control panel, Ashley could not resist giving him a nasty surprise. " Now that Raife's awake," she stated, looking Aiden dead in the eye, "he'll have something to say about that." The horror-stricken look on his face was priceless. For the first time in perhaps six hundred years, Aiden had been rendered speechless. Stunned mystification caused his eyes to bulge.

Ashley didn't wait for the dumbfounded regent to recover from his shock. She swept out the door of the security booth, passing Madison, who was fluttering right outside the exit, observing the unfolding drama with eyes agog. The servant girl's jaw dropped as Ashley plowed like an icebreaker through the flock of vampire maids. "Wait!" Madison called after the other woman. "What are you doing?" The only answer she received was the echoing ring of Ashley's bootsteps as the female Death Dealer disappeared down the marble corridor. _Has Aiden checked the crypt yet?_ Ashley wondered maliciously. _Or is he still working up his nerve? _Too bad she couldn't stay to find out. 

The iron gates slid open automatically and a dark gray sedan came screeching out into the driveway. Ashley wasn't kidding, Spencer realized, when she said she would be right out; less than five minutes had passed since she'd vanished from the monitor screen. She flung the passenger door open. "Get in!" she snapped with an urgency that scared the hell out of the young doctor. Spencer couldn't help remembering that the last time she had gotten into a car with this woman, she had almost ended up at the bottom of the Danube. _This is what I came here for,_ she reminded herself. She glanced uncertainly at the foreboding mansion. _Isn't it? _Gulping, she climbed into the car. 

_Raife… awake?_Aiden couldn't believe his ears. _She can't be serious,_ he thought desperately _She must have been joking. _Not that Ashley had ever been known for a puckish sense of humour. The agitated regent dispatched Soren to find the security booth's missing guardian, then charged out of the control room toward the crypt itself. He was terrified of what he might find but unable to live with the uncertainty for a heartbeat longer. The chill, ultra-air-conditioned climate of the sunken chamber matched the icy dread clutching his heart as his fearful eyes searched for the bronze plate marking Raife's buried tomb. _There! Thank the Fates!_ Relief washed over him like a soothing bloodbath as he saw that the inscribed hatch remained in place above his master's sarcophagus. Looking closer, he noted that Arthur's tomb appeared undisturbed as well, as did the now-vacant repository awaiting Christine. _All is well,_ he concluded, taking a moment to compose himself. He took a deep breath, then released it slowly. Ashley had merely been playing with his head, the deceitful bitch!

He turned to exit the crypt, his mind already devising the diabolical punishments he would inflict on Ashley if she ever dared to show her duplicitous face at the manor again, and he was startled to find a jittery servant girl standing behind him. Her elfin face was wan, even by vampire standards, and she trembled nervously, as though an entire pack of werewolves were salivating over her dainty flesh. Panicked violet orbs looked up at him. _Now what?_ he wondered irritably. "I warned her," she blurted breathlessly, the words spilling over her lips in a torrent. "I warned her, but she wouldn't listen. She never listens—to anybody." Aiden assumed she was referring to Ashley. "I'm sorry, I should've told you sooner. I should've—" Aiden's ears perked up suspiciously. "Told me what?"

"Her human. Spencer." She cringed as she spoke, dipping her head toward her shoulders. "She's not a human at all. She's a lycan." His newly regained composure evaporated in an instant, as the little handmaiden's appalling revelation set his temper ablaze. Blood reddened his eyes and face, while swollen veins pulsed violently at his temples. The servant girl backed away tremulously, anticipating the storm to come. "WHAT?" he roared like an aggrieved lion, unaware that only a few meters away in the darkened recovery chamber, ancient ears heard his bellowing cry—and listened attentively.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter Eighteen**_

The dark Hungarian woods zipped past the sedan's windows in a blur as Ashley kept her foot on the gas pedal. Spinning tires sent a whirlwind of fallen leaves swirling behind them, recklessly swooping and rising above the rain-slick asphalt. Her fingers tightly gripped the steering wheel as the female vampire drove through the night like a bat out of hell, although the irony was largely lost on her. "Look," she said forcefully, her intense brown eyes never leaving the road, "you can never go there again. _Never._ They'll kill you. Do you understand?"

"Kill me?" The strident confusion in Spencer's voice testified that she very clearly did not have a clue. "Who the hell are you people?"

_Where to begin?_ Ashley wondered, unsure how much or how little she should share with the agitated mortal—if Spencer even was a mortal. Risking a glance to her left, she spotted the gashes in Spencer's jacket above her right shoulder. _ Oh, hell,_ she thought, her heart sinking. _Please don't let that mean what I think it does. _Letting go of the wheel with one hand, she reached out and roughly yanked the blonde's jacket and T-shirt off her shoulder, exposing a red-stained bandage underneath. Ashley's fingers dug beneath the bloody gauze and impatiently ripped the bandage from Spencer's naked shoulder. "Hey!" Spencer yelped in surprise, but Ashley wasn't listening. All her attention was focused on the ugly wound, which now consisted of a crusty scab sprouting several dark black hairs. _No!_ she thought in despair, the sight of the scar hitting her like a blast of sunlight. Although the mark was already healing, there was no mistaking the savage bite of a lycanthrope. Madison had been telling the truth. Spencer was becoming one of _them. _Ashley slammed her fist into the dashboard, cracking the hard moulded plastic. _It's not fair!_ she thought angrily. _Not her! Not Spencer! _The young doctor stared at her, uncomprehending. The baffled innocence in her naive American face nearly broke the vampiress' heart. _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_ The sedan accelerated through the nocturnal countryside, zooming at breakneck speed toward Budapest—and a future she couldn't even bear to imagine. _Now what do I do?_

Deep within the crypt, Aiden was beside himself. "How could she choose a mangy lycan dog over me?" he ranted. The very thought of them together made his cold blood boil. "It's… inconceivable!" He angrily turned on the shapely vampiress bearer of this highly upsetting news. "Wait," he said, a hopeful thought striking him. He peered suspiciously at the cowering servant girl, who, if memory served, was named Madison. "You're the jealous one, aren't you?" Perhaps this was merely a clumsy, not to mention tasteless, attempt to divert his affections from Ashley? Alas, the silly little vamp reacted with horror to his implied accusation. "No! I swear, my lord, I would never lie to you!" Sadly, Aiden believed her, which left him no choice but to accept the obscene reality of Ashley's treacherous liaison with a lycan, of all creatures. _This time she's gone too far,_ he thought vindictively. Death Dealer or not, no vampire could be allowed to fraternize shamelessly with the enemy. Except for his secret alliance with Glen, of course.

He moved to leave the crypt, only to be halted in his tracks by a dry, whispery voice that emerged unexpectedly from the shadows at the rear of the subterranean chamber. "What is this tumult?" the voice demanded. Aiden's blood froze. _No, it cannot be!_ In his justifiable fury over Ashley's criminal behaviour, he had completely forgotten about her parting remark concerning Raife. _I had thought her words nothing more than an empty taunt. _Both he and Madison looked toward the voice, which seemed to emanate from the darkened recovery chamber. Aiden swallowed hard as a skeletal figure shuffled from the back of the chamber toward the clear Plexiglas wall dividing the recovery unit from the crypt itself. An involuntary gasp escaped the servant girl at the grotesque sight before them.

Raife, an elegant silk robe draped over his emaciated frame, looked back at them from behind the transparent barrier. Cold white eyes, like polished quartz, peered intensely from the murky hollows of his sockets. His mummified face held a cool, imperious expression. An intricate network of IV tubing rose from Raife's neck and shoulders, connecting him to a lighted overhead feeding mechanism, so that he resembled a demonic marionette. Bright arterial blood flowed down the intravenous tubes, nourishing and restoring the newly risen Elder. _This is all wrong!_ Aiden protested inwardly, seeing his carefully crafted designs unravel before his eyes. Raife was supposed to be safely interred in the earth right now, not up and about on the very eve of Aiden's greatest victory! _Can the plan still be saved,_ he wondered anxiously, _ or has all my bold and meticulous scheming come to naught? _Madison dropped to her knees beside Aiden, reminding him to do the same. His mind in a whirl, his glorious future suddenly cast into uncertainty, the terrified vampire lord knelt before his dark master. 

Spencer held on tightly to the door of the sedan as Ashley drove at top speed along the rain-soaked highway. A dented metal sign announced that they were only thirty kilometres from Budapest, but Spencer was too busy listening to Ashley to pay much attention to their progress. "Whether you like it or not," she said grimly, "you're in the middle of a covert war that has been raging for the better part of a thousand years… a blood feud between vampires and lycans." Spencer wasn't sure she had heard Ashley correctly. "Vampires and… what?"

"Werewolves," she added, noting the blonde's disoriented expression. "Lycanthropes." Spencer's jaw dropped. _Are you kidding me?_ she thought in shocked disbelief. Vampires and werewolves? What did Ashley think this was, some dopey horror movie? _This is the twenty-first century, for crissakes, not the Dark Ages! _

Despite her skepticism, bizarre memories from the last forty-eight hours flashed through her brain. That brunette girl at the mansion, sticking to the ceiling while she hissed at her through sharp white fangs…The stranger in the elevator, sinking his teeth into Spencer's shoulder…The ceiling of her apartment building, shedding chunks of plaster as three unseen creatures landed heavily on the roof above…The bloodcurdling roar of an unearthly beast…"No!" Spencer blurted, shaking her head. This was impossible. There were no such things as vampires or werewolves, except among deluded psychopaths and blood fetishists. _Maybe that's what's going on,_ she thought feverishly, struggling to find a rational context for what Ashley was saying. _This could be some sort of cult thing, maybe even a gang war between two rival sects. _"Believe what you want," Ashley said, discerning the doubt in Spencer's eyes. She raked her gaze across the young doctor's pale, perspiring features. "Consider yourself lucky. Most humans die within an hour of being bitten by an immortal. The virus we transmit is extremely lethal." _Don't talk to me about viruses!_ Spencer thought. _I'm a doctor. I know this is bullshit!_ Ashley didn't look like any sort of werewolf she'd ever heard of, so he guessed she considered herself a vampire. "And if you bit me, I suppose, what? I'd become a vampire myself?"

"No!" she said sharply, Spencer's sarcastic tone eliciting an impatient scowl. "You'd be dead. No one has ever survived a bite from both species—and, unfortunately, the lycans got to you first." She shook her head at her own reckless folly. "By rights, I should stop the car and kill you right here and now!"

Spencer gulped. Vampire or not, she knew from experience just how dangerous this woman could be. "Then why are you helping me?" she asked hesitantly. "I'm not!" Ashley insisted, perhaps a tad too vigorously. "I track you down and kill your kind! I'm a Death Dealer! It's my duty." She stared fixedly at the winding road ahead, making a point of not looking at Spencer. "My only interest is finding out why Glen wants you so badly." _Death Dealer? Glen?_ This was getting more confusing—and insane—by the minute. Spencer slumped back against her seat, overwhelmed by an "explanation" that made no sense whatsoever. Raising her free hand, she fingered the swollen bump on her forehead, a painful souvenir of the last time she went driving with Ashley. _Maybe I was wrong to come looking for her,_ she second-guessed herself. _Maybe she's psychologically disturbed. _But what if she were telling the truth? 

Head bowed, Madison rose and quietly tiptoed out of the crypt, leaving Aiden alone with Raife. He barely noticed her leave, too perturbed by his dread master's untimely resurrection to pay heed to anything else. Was Soren still waiting in the security booth? It mattered little; no bodyguard on earth could spare Aiden from Raife's wrath should the Elder find fault with his trembling regent. _Damn you, Ashley,_ Aiden thought. _What have you done? _"Do you know why I have been awakened, my servant?" Raife asked. His voice was a dry rustle, creaking from petrified vocal cords that had lain silent for nearly a century. "No, my lord," Aiden answered. Kneeling, he stared meekly at the floor, unable to meet his master's smouldering, eerie bright blue eyes. "But I will soon find out."

Raife gestured for Aiden to rise. "You mean when you find _her_." Then Raife knew that Ashley was responsible for his awakening? "Yes, my lord," Aiden said quickly, praying that the faithless Ashley, and not himself, would incur the Elder's displeasure. "I give you my word that she shall be found!" Raife nodded thoughtfully. Calcified joints cracked and popped. "You will let her come to me," he decreed. "We have much to discuss, Ashley and I. She has shown me a great many disturbing things." An ominous tone entered his bone-dry voice. "Things that will be dealt with soon enough." Aiden quailed before the gaze of the reanimated Elder. What did Raife mean? What had Ashley shown him? For an instant, Aiden felt certain that Raife knew everything: the alliance with Glen, the plans for tomorrow night, everything. He shuddered at the thought. Death would be mercy if Raife had even a glimmer of Aiden's true ambitions. More likely, Aiden would be doomed to an eternity of unceasing torture for merely daring to contemplate such an unprecedented offense.

It took all his courage not to run fleeing from the crypt this very moment. Aiden felt his resolve waning perceptibly as he forced himself to remain in Raife's presence, while the skeletal Elder subjected him to a withering stare. Raife stepped closer to the Plexiglas divider, and Aiden clenched every bone and muscle in his body in order to remain stiffly at attention. His face became a rigid mask, betraying nothing. "This coven has grown weak… decadent," Raife pronounced, as though Aiden's harmless (albeit numerous) indulgences were written in scarlet upon the younger vampire's face and figure. Aiden felt like Dorian Gray, confronted by the incriminating lineaments of his notorious portrait. "Perhaps," Raife continued, "I should have left someone else in charge of my affairs." Once again, Aiden wondered what exactly Ashley had managed to communicate to the newly roused Elder. A flicker of resentment helped to melt a bit of the icy dread oppressing his spirit. _Just one more night,_ he thought maliciously, _and Raife's opinion of my abilities would have been academic!_

Aiden kept his secret agenda hidden deep within the most clandestine chambers of his immortal heart. Perhaps there was still a chance for success, despite the Elder's premature awakening? Taking a closer look at the unsightly creature before him, Aiden saw that the mighty Raife was, in fact, still recovering from his prolonged period of hibernation. He tottered momentarily upon his withered legs and raised a bony hand to his brow as he closed his eyes and squinted in discomfort, as if pained by the turbulent impressions within his ageless skull. "Still," Raife conceded solemnly, "Ashley's memories are… chaotic, with no sense of time or sequence."

"Then, please, my lord," Aiden asserted, encouraged by Raife's fleeting signs of weakness, "allow me to summon assistance." It would not be long, he knew, before Raife was entirely himself again, but Aiden intended to make the most of the Elder's brief period of recovery. _ Just one more night,_ he thought again. _That's all I—and Glen—need. _Then Raife and his fellow Elders would regret underestimating Aiden of Leicester! "Heed me, my lord. You are greatly in need of rest." Dry, papery eyelids peeled open. "I've rested enough," Raife declared. "What you can do is summon Arthur. It is time I was made aware of matters as they stand." Aiden gazed at the Elder, aghast. _By God, he does not comprehend what has truly occurred._ The dark-haired vampire's freshly restored confidence wilted at the daunting prospect of explaining to Raife the full enormity of Ashley's unspeakable transgression. _Please remember, my master,_ he thought timorously, _Ashley is to blame, not I! _

His mouth nearly as dry as his mummified sire's, Aiden pointed toward Arthur' tomb. "But… he still slumbers, my lord." Raife's pallid cranium drew back like a cobra's. His sunken eyes widened alarmingly, then began to burn with malignant fire. His lipless mouth turned downward in a macabre grimace. Exposed fangs gnashed angrily. Frightened by Raife's growing fury, Aiden stepped back across the floor of the crypt. He hastened to finish his explanation, before the Elder's simmering temper exploded at the nearest living target, namely Aiden himself. "Christine and the council members are scheduled to arrive here tomorrow night… to awaken Arthur, not you." Wordless rage contorted Raife's hideous countenance, turning his death's-head visage into that of a vengeful demon. Aiden stumbled backward, averting his eyes from the wrathful Elder as he nervously spelled out the entire wretched situation: "You've been awakened a full century ahead of schedule."


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter Nineteen**_

Aiden felt as if he'd been drained by an entire coven of voracious she-vampires when he finally staggered out of the unquiet crypt. _Thank Providence!_ he thought shakily, both relieved and surprised that he actually had survived his nerve-jangling encounter with Raife. He had forgotten just how menacing his sire could be. Ultimately, the autocratic Elder had merely dismissed Aiden from his presence, the better to ponder matters in private. Aiden was delighted to accommodate Raife in this regard and drew some small comfort from the fact that, for the time being, the newly awakened Elder was confined to the circumscribed borders of the recovery chamber. He knew better, however, than to think that Raife would languish in the gloomy bowels of the mansion for long. Raife would rise from the crypt, in full possession of his former strength and majesty, soon enough. _I must be prepared,_ Aiden thought hastily, _before it is too late. _

To his surprise, he found the servant girl—Madison—waiting for him in the stately viewing chamber outside the crypt. The rest of the nattering handmaidens had fled the vicinity, no doubt spooked by Raife's unsettling resurrection, yet Madison had stayed behind, perched tensely on the edge of a carved marble bench. She sprang dutifully to her feet as Aiden exited the crypt. "My lord!" After keeping all his fears and resentments bottled up during his gruelling audience with Raife, Aiden welcomed the opportunity to vent his emotions to someone considerably less intimidating than Raife. This doting scullion was so insignificant in the scheme of things that he could speak freely in front of her. It was like talking to an empty room, really. "That bitch has betrayed me!" he ranted, spewing the worst of his bile at Ashley and her lycan paramour. He stomped away from the crypt's soundproofed walls, putting a healthy distance between himself and the ghastly revenant now residing in the recovery area. "Now Raife knows everything she has been obsessing about!" But how much did Ashley truly know or suspect? Drawing near him, Madison winced at his heated denunciation of Ashley. She clearly disliked seeing his passion directed at another vampiress, no matter how bitter his disposition. Meekly tentatively, she reached out to comfort him. Her tiny hands lit softly on his arm.

Irritated, he shoved her away roughly. _Stupid tart!_ he fumed. The last thing he needed now was some lovesick menial fawning over him. His eternal life was at risk! Choking back a sob, Madison stumbled away from him, her pale vampire face flushing red with shame and embarrassment. The obvious depth of her heartache penetrated Aiden's brooding preoccupation, spurring him to reconsider the servant girl's advances. Perhaps he should not be so fast to toss away such a fervent devotee? "Wait!" he called after her. Madison froze as though thunderstruck. Her violet eyes were wet as she turned to look back at him. Crimson tears streaked her cheeks. For the first time in nearly thirty years, Aiden really looked at Madison, inspecting her flaxen hair, silky skin, and lissom figure. Bare white shoulders and an enticing throat offered a preview of the creamy delights beneath her tarty black frock. She was a tasty morsel, he had to admit, if not quite the irresistible goddess that Ashley was.

He strode across the floor to where the transfixed maid stood quaking, her slender hands cupped over her lips, as if she were afraid to give voice to the riotous emotions roiling her soul. She all but melted as Aiden dropped his hands onto her bare shoulders and gazed down into her eyes. "Are you to be trusted?" he asked. She nodded, beaming back at him. Her adoring eyes and radiant expression told him everything he needed to know. His wish was her command. 

The broken-down old brownstone, located in one of central Pest's less picturesque corners, was an ugly, unprepossessing pile of bricks, clearly erected sometime after the war, when the city was still under Soviet control. Decades of smog and soot had blackened every inch of the building's dingy exterior, while the steel-shuttered windows and spray-painted graffiti made it clear that the brownstone had been abandoned for some time. Or so it appeared. "This is one of the places we use for interrogations," Ashley explained as she pulled up to the curb. The rain finally had let up for a time, but the streets and sidewalks were still wet. Greasy puddles reflected the gibbous moon shining down through the low-rise neighborhood buildings.

After parking the sedan in an adjacent alley, away from sight, she got out and led Spencer up the slippery steps of the building, where she unlocked the padlock holding the front door shut. They stepped inside the murky foyer, and Spencer heard rats scuttle away in a hurry, surprised by the brownstone's late-night visitors. Ashley switched on a flashlight, perhaps as a concession to Spencer's merely human vision, and swept the trash-strewn lobby with its cool white beam. A dilapidated staircase led upstairs, and Ashley confidently ascended the creaking steps, pointing the way with the flashlight. Spencer followed her numbly, her exploding brain still trying to cope with the mind-boggling revelations Ashley had imparted to her earlier. She had spent much of the subsequent drive in silence, in fact, struggling to decide how much, if anything, to believe of the whole wild story. _Werewolves and vampires… oh my God,_ she thought. The really scary part was that, against every fibre of her modern, rational, twenty-first-century being, she actually was coming around to the preposterous idea that, just maybe, Ashley was telling the truth. In which case, she was in the deepest shit imaginable.

"So, what do you do?" Spencer asked her warily as they climbed the stairs, floor by wearying floor. Her much abused and depleted body strained against gravity with every step. "Kill people, drink their blood?" Ashley shook her head. "We haven't needed to feed on humans for hundreds of years." Unlike Spencer, she sounded unaffected by the exhausting climb. "It draws needless attention." They reached the top of the stairs, and she unlocked a heavy wooden door on the sixth floor. She stepped inside and switched on a light, then gestured for Spencer to follow her. The blonde did so, for lack of any better idea. _Enter freely and of your own will,_ she thought, recalling a line from _Dracula. _Spencer had read the book years ago, in high school, but had never expected to find herself living it. _Step into my lair…_

Fluorescent lights, coming on one by one, exposed a small, Spartan room equipped with minimal furnishings. There were no beds or sofas, just several sturdy metal chairs, weapons racks on the walls, and neatly stacked boxes of ammunition. The walls and floor were bare and unadorned, except for an out-of-date calendar pinned to one of the walls. _Some sort of safe house,_ Spencer realized, even though, up until now, her only knowledge of such things had come strictly from spy novels and movies. Ashley flicked a switch on the wall, producing a short electronic buzz. A set of rusty metal shutters slid downward to reveal an open window looking down on the street below. She approached the window cautiously, then risked a searching glance outside before nodding grimly to herself. _All's clear,_ Spencer guessed. The young doctor tried not to think about the idea that, if Ashley story were to be believed, the brunette was looking out for werewolves.

A small portable refrigerator hummed in one corner of the room, next to a wooden ammunition crate. Ashley stepped away from the window and opened the tiny fridge. Spencer spotted what looked like several dozen frozen packets of whole blood. _Emergency medical supplies,_ she wondered queasily, _or dinner? _Ashley snatched a packet from the fridge and casually tossed it toward Spencer. To the blonde's amazement, she actually caught it, despite feeling like death warmed over. The frozen blood was cold to the touch, like an icepack. Spencer resisted an urge to press it against her aching forehead, instead inspecting the logo printed on the plastic packet. "Ziodex Industries," she read out loud. She recognized the name. Ziodex was a big deal in the global biopharmaceuticals industry.

Karolyi Hospital stocked plenty of Ziodex's products. "We own it," Ashley stated, explaining, among other things, what paid for the upkeep on that expensive mansion of hers. "First, synthetic plasma. Now that. Once it's approved, it will be our newest cash crop." Spencer flipped over the packet and read the label on the back. Her bloodshot eyes bulged in shock as she realized what she was holding. "Cloned blood," she whispered, unsure whether to be impressed or appalled. As a medical student, she had known that there had been some research and development along these lines, but she'd had no idea that Ziodex was so far ahead of the field. "Wait a second," she protested, as a point of confusion occurred to her. "You said before that… vampires"—she stumbled awkwardly over the word—"haven't needed to feed on humans for centuries. Surely, you weren't cloning blood a hundred years ago?"

"Of course not," Ashley said. To Spencer's relief, Ashley didn't help herself to a refreshing pint of plasma; that would probably be more than she could take right now. "We subsisted on cattle blood for ages, by the Elders' decree. Preying on human stock was immoral, as well as dangerous. We had no desire to attract the pitchforks—and wooden stakes—of an outraged populace." She reclaimed the thawing packet from Spencer and popped it back into the freezer. "Synthetic plasma and cloned human blood are relatively new innovations." Spencer didn't have the nerve to ask her whether cloned blood tasted the same as the regular kind. "So vampires don't really drink blood anymore?" In a weird sort of way, that was almost disillusioning, like finding out that Lizzie Borden didn't really hack her parents to pieces.

Ashley hesitated before answering, then assumed a somewhat defensive tone. "Well, we don't _need_ to drain humans for sustenance, but some vampires still like to drink real blood occasionally, for pleasure." She avoided Spencer's eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "From each other, that is, and certain human…donors."

"Willing donors?" Spencer pressed. "In theory," Ashley said darkly. Spencer got the distinct impression that some vampires were more scrupulous about their recreational dining than others. She thought she knew what kind of vampire Ashley was, but her hand rose protectively toward her throat nonetheless. At the same time, part of hier still couldn't believe that she was genuinely taking part in a serious discussion about the eating habits of vampires. _I mean, c'mon… vampires?_

An awkward silence fell over the room. Spencer's rubbery legs reminded her just how sick and tired she was, and she dropped mercifully into the nearest heavy-duty titanium chair, which felt hard and durable enough to seat a full-grown gorilla—or perhaps a monster-sized werewolf. Her shell-shocked gaze drifted absently about the room, eventually falling on a massive steel table resting nearby. A tray of silver surgical instruments sat atop the table, covered by a grayish-white layer of dust and cobwebs. "What are those for?" she asked. The doctor in her was scandalized by the distinctly less than sterile condition of the scalpels and pliers and such, many of which showed signs of rust, dried blood, or some grisly combination thereof. _Do vampires not have to worry about infection?_ she wondered, reluctantly employing the V-word again.

"Lycans are allergic to silver," Ashley informed her. She drew out one of her pistols and placed it on the table beside the tray of instruments. "We have to get our bullets out quickly, or they end up dying on us during questioning. "There was nothing apologetic about her tone; if anything, she seemed much more comfortable discussing interrogation techniques than she had been when divulging the seamier underside of the vampire lifestyle. Spencer stared at her, aghast. The blonde tried and failed to imagine this exquisite beauty brutally interrogating a captive werewolf. "What happens to them afterward?"

"We put the bullets back in," she said with a shrug. 

Glen and Singe made their way down a crumbling passageway far beneath the sleeping city. The lycan scientist disliked leaving his underground laboratory, but Glen had insisted that Singe accompany him as Glen checked on the preparations for tomorrow night's historic operation. In any event, Singe conceded to himself, there was little else he could do until the human, Spencer Carlin, was successfully retrieved. The grand experiment was essentially on hold. "It may be wise," Glen commented, "to keep a closer eye on our bloodthirsty cousins." Singe realized that Glen was referring to the vampires. Unlike the less enlightened members of their pack, Singe was aware of the profound genetic link between the lycanthropes and their undead foes. Both breeds shared a common origin, now shrouded by centuries of conflict and superstition. "I'll have Clay see to it immediately," he assured Glen. A little extra surveillance couldn't hurt, especially with all that was at stake, and Clay had recovered sufficiently from his injuries to undertake such a mission. Glen slowed to a stop and placed a hand on Singe's scrawny shoulder. The metallic pendant on Glen's chest caught the light from the sputtering fluorescents overhead. Singe had never seen his leader without his gilded talisman. _A curious affectation,_ the old scientist thought, but one he had never chosen to question. _Odd that so knowledgeable and visionary a being would flaunt such an archaic trinket. _"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to place my faith in you, my friend," Glen said. "Time is running short, and I need to rely on the sharpest wits at my disposal." Singe repressed an impatient sigh. _I'm a scientist,_ he protested silently. _I belong in my lab!_ But who was he to challenge his master's instructions? If not for Glen, he would have died of leukaemia generations ago. "As you wish," he agreed.


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter Twenty**_

Spencer sat uncomfortably in the steel chair, exhausted but unable to sleep. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat, and her guts felt tangled into a knot. Invisible bugs crawled over every inch of her body, causing her to scratch uselessly at her arms and legs. The moonlight coming through the window hurt her eyes, but she found herself unable to look away from it for long. _Is it true? s_he wondered, despite years of rigorous scientific training. _Is Ashley right? Am I turning into a werewolf? _It was insane, ridiculous even to consider for an instant, and yet…why did she still hear that unearthly howl echoing inside her skull? She looked over at Ashley, afraid to ask the vampire what her debilitating symptoms might mean. The leather-clad woman stood vigilantly by the open window, keeping watch over the silent street outside. Her fingers rested on the grip of her automatic pistol, as if she couldn't wait to find a target for her silver bullets. "Why do you hate them so much?" Spencer asked her. Ashley frowned and shifted position so that her back was to the blonde. From her body language and from what Spencer glimpsed of her expression, there was no way in hell she wanted to have this conversation with her right now. "Can't you just answer the question?" she persisted. If Ashley were going to condemn her for becoming a werewolf, she at least wanted to know why. _Am I going to become your next target,_ she agonized, _once whatever happens… happens?_

She waited tensely, but no response was forthcoming. She stared helplessly at the glossy leather contours of her back, until she was certain Ashley was giving her the brush-off. "Fine," she muttered sourly, turning her gaze to the bare wooden timbers of the floor. A dark brown smudge discoloured the floor beneath where she was sitting. Dried blood from the victim of some past interrogation?

"They tore my family to pieces," Ashley whispered slowly, breaking the silence. She spoke so faintly that at first Spencer wasn't sure that she heard her. "Fed on them…" She turned away from the window, locking eyes with Spencer. In those enigmatic chestnut orbs, Spencer thought she discerned years of unhealed grief and sorrow. Old pain coloured Ashley voice. "They took everything from me," she said. 

Aiden reclined on a red velvet divan, lost in thought. Where was Ashley now, and what was she doing with that lycan trash? According to Soren, she had fled the mansion with this Carlin character while Aiden had been occupied with Raife down in the crypt. _She could be anywhere by now,_ he groused unhappily. Somehow he doubted that she would return to the mansion before sunrise. He disliked having such a loose cannon in play less than twenty-four hours before his ultimate bid for power. Raife risen, Ashley missing, Glen discontented…nothing was going according to plan! _It still can work,_ he thought desperately, striving to reassure himself. _I just need to be strong and not give in, not with victory so near…_

The door swung open, and Madison entered the suite. _About time,_ he thought. He had dispatched her to notify the household staff of Raife's resurrection, the better to prevent pernicious rumours and gossip from spreading unchecked throughout the manor. By way of damage control, he had claimed credit for the Elder's awakening, instructing Madison to spread the story that he had been acting under top-secret directives from Christine herself, for reasons privy only to the two of them. With luck, this improvised fabrication would leave the impression that he was still fully in command of events, at least until it no longer mattered. _Soon,_ he promised himself, _my Authority will be beyond question. _He sat up straight on the divan. "Good, you're here," he addressed the tardy maidservant. Madison had been gone for at least fifteen minutes or so; from the looks of it, she had taken the time to touch up her makeup and let down her hair. "Now, I need you to keep what I'm about to tell you under the strictest confi—"Madison surprised him by reaching out and pressing a finger against his lips.

Her brown eyes looked into his. "It can wait," she whispered huskily. With a sexy smirk, she reached back and undid the clasps of her lacy black frock. The garment slid to the floor, exposing a sylphlike female form that had not aged a day since that fateful night in Piccadilly twenty-seven years ago. Her bare feet stepped free of the discarded dress, bringing her undraped flesh within a finger's reach of her seated sire. Aiden was taken aback, to say the least. This was not exactly what he'd had in mind when he had told the eager maidservant to report back to him. He'd intended only to instruct her to monitor Raife's activities in the recovery room, under the guise of tending to the Elder's comfort, and keep him informed of Raife's every action and utterance. _Then again,_ he reflected, weighing his options, _what the hell?_ His dark eyes greedily devoured the blond vampiress' enticing nakedness. Despite the weighty concerns troubling his mind, he felt his undead body responding to her generously displayed feminine charms. _Why not?_ he reasoned. He needed every minion he could muster right now, and if this was what it took to secure the girl's absolute allegiance…well, there were worse ways to pass the hours before sunrise.

Accepting her provocative invitation, he took hold of her slim white hips and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her slender waist. His lips found her belly, and her taut flesh quivered uncontrollably as he kissed and licked his way up toward her breasts. Her supple skin was smooth as porcelain and cool as a refreshing mountain stream, and his hungry tongue left a moist trail across the sensuous contours of her nubile body. Madison gasped once, then bit down hard upon her lower lip. Aiden smiled at his own amatory prowess; no doubt, the silly minx had been waiting for this moment ever since she became a vampire. 

"Something was in the stable, tearing the horses to pieces," Ashley said softly. She remained standing beside the open window. It felt strange to be speaking to Spencer like this, and of such a deeply personal matter, but she couldn't help herself. It felt oddly right as well, although she couldn't have begun to explain why. "I couldn't have saved my mother. Or my sister. Their screams woke me. My father died outside, trying to fend them off. I stood at my door, about to run to my nieces, when...Twin girls, barely six years old. Butchered like animals. They cried for me…and then there was silence."

"Jesus Christ," Spencer exclaimed. Despite her own troubles and the bestial contagion wracking her body, her earnest young face was filled with unmistakable compassion and sympathy. The brunette's throat tightened, making it even harder to speak. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had even tried to share her pain. "The war had spilled into my house, my home." Her voice was little more than a whisper, but she could see Spencer hanging on her every word. Crimson tears welled up in her eyes, for the first time in centuries. After all these years, the memory was still like an open wound. "And the next thing I knew, I was in Raife's arms. He had been tracking the lycans for days. He drove them off, saved me." Raife's name provoked a puzzled expression from Spencer. "Who?"

"The oldest and most powerful of us all," she explained. "That night Raife made me a vampire. His blood gave me the strength to avenge my family. And I've never looked back." _Until now,_ she added silently. What was it about this human that made her want to open up like this, break free of the emotional armour that had encased her heart for ages? She was just a mortal, and one infected by the lycans. "I saw your pictures," she blurted. She told herself she was only changing the subject, turning the focus back on Spencer, where it belonged. "Who was the woman? Your wife?" Spencer's head jerked back in surprise. 

The lycans' armoury was housed in an abandoned bunker many meters beneath the thriving metropolis above. Water dripped on the concrete floor outside the bunker as Glen inspected his troops. Fully armed with UV-compatible semiautomatic weapons, several dozen lycans were lined up in the tunnel, their backs turned to the crumbling brick walls. Humanoid figures, clad in grubby brown apparel, gripped their guns and rifles, preparing to deal out ultraviolet death to their ancestral enemies. The lycan soldiers snapped to attention as Glen strode past them into the makeshift armoury. _Excellent,_ he thought. The pack looked fit and ready for combat. Although dimly lit and grimy, the armoury was perfectly functional. Lycan commandos were busily going about their duties, inspecting and oiling high-calibre weapons, loading UV cartridges, and so on. A rickety aluminium table had been set up in the center of the converted bomb shelter to assist in the planning of tonight's operation. Pierce and Taylor, having traded their bogus police uniforms for scuffed brown leather, stood around the table, poring over a detailed map of the city. They looked up from the chart at Glen's approach."How are things progressing?" he asked them curtly. The two lycans smiled in answer, baring sharp white teeth. 

Now it was Spencer's turn to relive the worst night of her life. She stared bleakly into the past as Ashley watched her from across the barren hideout. "I tried to swerve, but he hit us anyway. Sent us right into the oncoming lane. When I came to, I realized part of the engine was now in the front seat…and she was pinned there, not six inches from me, in this…horrible position. She must've been in shock, because she just kept asking me over and over if I was all right. She was more worried about me than…" She had to pause, her throat choked with emotion. Ashley's heart went out to her. Considering her history, Ashley was amazed that Spencer had ever gotten into a car again, let alone endured her speeding Jaguar the night before. Spencer had told her all about their headlong plunge into the Danube; she felt a stab of remorse for subjecting him to yet another automotive catastrophe. Blinking back tears, Spencer started again. "If I knew then what I know now, I could've saved her. Stopped her bleeding, treated her for shock and trauma." Ashley heard guilt as well as sorrow in the blonde's voice. "No doubt in my mind, I could have saved her…but, instead, she died right there, not two minutes before the ambulance arrived."

To her shame, Ashley felt a flicker of relief that Spencer's fiancée, an American named Carmen, was irrevocably dead and buried, but she dismissed that reaction as unworthy of her. What did that matter, anyway? Spencer was only a pawn in the war against the lycans…wasn't she? "After that," she continued, "I really didn't see any reason to stick around in the States. My grandparents—my dad's folks—emigrated from Hungary back in the forties, after the war, and they used to talk fondly about the Old Country, so once I got my degree, I figured what the hell? I just took off, came over here to, I dunno, move on… forget." She shrugged nonchalantly, feigning a blasé attitude that seemed at odds with her true feelings. "Seemed like a good idea at the time." _You probably would have been better off staying in America,_ Ashley thought mordantly. Without being obvious about it, her gaze drifted to the bloodstained bite marks on Spencer's shoulder. "And have you?" Ashley asked her. "Moved on?" Spencer looked her squarely in the eyes. "Have you?" Ashley didn't have an answer for her. 

_Yes!_ Madison thought rapturously. _At last! _Aiden's icy lips explored her breasts, his keen teeth teasing first one nipple, then the other. Aiden's strong hands gripped her rump, his demanding grasp leaving its imprint upon her pliant flesh. She ran her fingers through his luxurious black mane, clinging to his unbound hair as though her immortal life depended on it. Madison could not believe her good fortune. Finally, her most fervent fantasies were coming true. Lord Aiden was making love to _her,_ not Ashley, not Sherry, not any of the other girls. The regent of the manor, the ruler of the coven, had chosen _her._ She had _arrived! _He drew back his head, just for an instant, and used his sharpened fingernail to slice a small half moon beneath her left nipple. Madison gasped out loud as her blood began to leak from the stinging, crescent-shaped gash. Aiden's mouth returned to her breast, lapping at the crimson stream. Madison moaned ecstatically and threw back her head, surrendering to the moment as the vampire lord suckled on her bleeding teat. She never wanted this moment to end… 

Outside the mansion, beyond the perimeter fence, a matte-black van slowly drove past the entrance to the estate. The unassuming vehicle crept along the road with both its headlights and taillights off, so that it was all but invisible in the deep, tenebrous night. Swirling tendrils of dense gray fog helped shroud the creeping van from watchful eyes. Singe sat behind the wheel of the van, his lycan eyes easily penetrating the darkness outside. He slowed to a stop a few meters away from the mansion's driveway and peered through the high cast-iron gates at the secluded Gothic edifice at the opposite end of the driveway. The palatial residence, with its marble columns and towering spires, was certainly grander and more impressive than the lycans' crude underground lair. _So that is Ordoghaz,_ the scientist thought. He felt both excitement and trepidation at coming so near to the very stronghold of his foes. An entire coven of vampires, including scores of lethal Death Dealers, was less than half a kilometre away—and completely unaware of his presence. Or so he hoped. _I really should be back in my lab,_ he groused silently. This sort of intelligence operation was the sort of thing that Clay or Pierce or Taylor should be handling. Singe took a moment to pine for his abandoned scientific equipment and experiments; he resented being pulled away from his work at such a critical juncture, just as he was nearing the very culmination of his groundbreaking endeavour. _At the very least, I should be out tracking down the elusive Spencer Carlin, so that we can proceed with the experiment, not spying on a nest of unwary bloodsuckers! _Still, his was not to reason why. With a sigh of resignation, he looked away from the nearby mansion and peered back over his shoulder at the rear of the van, where a five-man team of lycan commandos readied their weapons. Their humanoid faces held expressions of feral anticipation. Unlike the out-of-place biochemist, the soldiers looked ready, eager, and loaded for bear. Or, in this case, bats. 

"Who actually started this war?" Spencer asked. Ashley stood watch by the open window. A shaft of silver moonlight threw her statuesque silhouette onto the uncarpeted wooden timbers of the floor. Despite everything, Spencer couldn't help noticing how beautiful Ashley was. "They did," the brunette answered, "or at least that's what we've been led to believe." Her mournful eyes were turned toward the deserted streets outside. "Digging into the past is discouraged. Many things are." A trace of resentment entered her voice. "But I'm beginning to suspect that there's more to this war than meets the eye." _Like what?_ Spencer wondered, then realized that she was giving serious consideration to the political underpinnings of a secret war between vampires and werewolves. _Am I actually buying all this?_ she asked herself incredulously.

Her gazed closely at the exotically gorgeous woman standing by the window. In her tight black leathers, Ashley looked more like Emma Peel than Anne Rice. Did Spencer really think this woman was an honest-to-God vampire? _I don't know,_ she admitted reluctantly. She didn't know what she believed anymore. Ashley glanced at her wristwatch. "Almost five a.m.," she announced. "I should be heading back." _Right, before the sun comes up,_ Spencer realized, appalled that this actually made some sort of sense to her. Was there a comfy coffin waiting for Ashley back at the mansion? "What about me?" the young doctor asked. Ashley paused before answering. "Raife will know what to do," she said finally. Spencer recalled that, according to Ashley, Raife was the head honcho of all the vampires. Having her future dependent on the decisions of a real-life Count Dracula did not reassure Spencer. "I'll come back tomorrow night," Ashley promised.

_No way,_ Spencer thought, rejecting the idea of spending the next twelve hours hiding out by herself in this dismal safe house. She clambered unsteadily to her feet and pulled on her jacket. "Well, I'm sure as hell not staying here alone," she declared, trying to ignore the way her head was spinning. She steadied herself by grabbing onto an arm of the solidly built titanium chair. "You will if you want to live," Ashley said sternly. Stepping away from the window, she crossed the floor to where Spencer was standing. The blonde closed her eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The way she was feeling now, she wasn't sure she was going to last until tomorrow night. Her temples throbbed with every heartbeat, and her shoulder burned where that bearded madman had bitten her. _For all I know, I'm coming down with rabies. _"Look," Spencer appealed to her, "you can help me sneak back into the hospital, or I can do it myself." A shudder passed through her as she recalled her close call at the hospital several hours ago. What if the police were still looking for him there? "Either way, I need to run a few tests on myself, see if I've been, you know, infected with… something." She couldn't bring herself to say _lycanthropy._ That was the precise medical diagnosis, wasn't it? Ashley maintained a stony expression, apparently unconvinced by his plea. _ Fine,_ Spencer thought irritably. She nodded at the recalcitrant woman and turned toward the door. _Guess I'm on my own then._

Ashley's hand grabbed her arm, and, once again, Spencer was surprised at just how strong Ashley was. Her closed fist felt like an unbreakable vise. Sick as she was, Spencer knew she had no chance of breaking away from the vampire's iron grip. Heck, she'd probably be just as stuck if she were in the pink of health. Ashley was that strong. Strong as a vampire? _Now what do I do?_ Spencer thought helplessly. She turned back toward Ashley, unsure whether to bawl her out angrily or plead for mercy. How did you reason with a stubborn vampire, anyway? They stood face to face, only inches apart. Ashley's dark eyes—enigmatic, inscrutable—stared intently into Spencer's. Her exquisitely crafted face offered no clue to what was going on behind those unforgettable chestnut eyes. Spencer started to open her mouth, still uncertain what she was going to say, but Ashley leaned forward unexpectedly and silenced the blonde with a kiss. Her lips were cold but lush and tender. Spencer's mind was caught off guard, but her body responded instantly, as though it had been waiting for this moment all night. Perhaps it had; Spencer hadn't realized until now just how much she had been wanting to kiss Ashley. Spencer closed her eyes, savouring the sensation, and passionately kissed Ashley back.

_CLICK-CLICK._ A pair of metallic snaps intruded on her bliss, and Spencer's eyes snapped open in confusion. _What in the world?_ Her eyes widened further as, looking down, she saw that Ashley had handcuffed her to the heavy titanium chair. "Hey, what the heck are you doing?" she gasped, feeling betrayed, frustrated, and disappointed all at the same time. Pulling away from Ashley, she tugged vigorously on the cuffs, but the sturdy chair, built to withstand the frenzied efforts of a captured werewolf, was bolted securely to the floor and refused to budge. She was trapped. Ashley stared at her implacably, showing none of the ardour and affection her moist lips had bestowed on Spencer only seconds before. She reached beneath her coat and drew out her pistol. Spencer gulped, wondering if this was the end. Had the kiss been some sort of twisted gangland tradition, bestowing a final benediction upon the condemned, or had she simply meant to distract the blonde long enough to put the cuffs on her? Either way, Spencer was suddenly reminded just how little she truly knew of this woman or what she was capable of. _And I thought she was my last, best hope! _What remained of her strength evaporated, and she stumbled backward into the waiting chair.

She dropped weakly into the seat, unable to stay on her feet a second longer. _Go ahead and kill me,_ she thought bitterly. _Just let me sit down for a minute first. _Gun in hand, Ashley stepped toward her. She leaned down to look Spencer straight in the eye. The voice that issued from her lips was flat and devoid of emotion: "When the full moon rises tomorrow night, you will change, you will kill, and you will feed." She shook her head ruefully, forestalling any objections. "It's unavoidable." Her steely gaze drifted to the metal cuffs holding the young doctor fast to the chair. "I can't leave you free to roam around. I'm sorry." _This is insane!_ Spencer thought furiously, wishing she had the strength at least to rattle her bonds in defiance. _One minute you're kissing me, the next minute you're telling that I'm going to turn into a monster? _Ashley racked a round into her trusty automatic. Spencer wondered how many of the bullets had hers name on them. Instead of shooting her, however, the brunette ejected the magazine and held it up to the blonde so that she could see the gleaming silver bullets inside. _Just like the Lone Ranger,_ she thought irrationally. _Thanks a bundle, kemo sabe. _"A single round most likely won't kill you," Ashley explained in a monotone, "but the silver should prevent the transformation…at least for a few hours." She reinserted the cartridge into the gun and dropped the loaded weapon into Spencer's lap. "If I don't return in time, do yourself a favour. Use it."

Later, Spencer would realize that she could have conceivably pulled the gun on Ashley and demanded that she free her. (Not that silver would have much effect on a vampire, probably.) Right now, though, she could only gape at Ashley, dumbfounded and amazed just to be breathing, as the vampire fleetly exited the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Spencer heard the click of a lock sliding into place, followed, a few heartbeats later, by the sound of Ashley's bootsteps disappearing down the stairs. Numbly, she lifted the gun from her lap. She stared at it as if it were an alien artefact. "Use it," Ashley had said. She wasn't serious, was she?


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter Twenty-one**_

The sporty gray sedan came screaming toward Ordoghaz at breakneck speed, racing the rising sun. _Cutting it a bit close, are we?_ Singe thought wryly, watching from inside the parked van. The vampire inability to tolerate sunlight was a weakness that he and his lycan kinsmen did not share with their enemies. He wondered what had kept this tardy bloodsucker out so late. The driver of the sedan was in such an obvious rush that Singe judged it highly unlikely that he or she would spot the unlit van lurking in the shadows across from the entrance to the vampires' mansion. Raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes, he saw that the driver was a dark-haired female sporting the distinctive leather garb of a Death Dealer. He guessed at once that this was the infamous Ashley, who had already foiled at least two attempts to take Spencer Carlin into custody. Singe felt that this was reason enough to want her dead.

To his acute disappointment, she appeared to be alone, which prompted him to wonder where exactly Spencer Carlin was now. Was the elusive mortal already sequestered somewhere within the forbidding walls of Ordoghaz, or had this undead vixen stowed her elsewhere? _If she's wasted a drop of the human's precious blood,_ he thought poisonously, _ I'll see to it that Glen has her tortured for all eternity! _As expected, the sedan paid no heed to the skulking van, instead zipping straight toward the manor's cast-iron gates, which opened automatically to admit her. Singe watched with curiosity as Ashley sped her car down the driveway toward the shelter of the mansion's sunproof walls. This vampiress, he recalled, always seemed to be on hand when Spencer Carlin was in jeopardy, which made her suddenly very interesting to the sly lycan scientist. _Perhaps,_ he reflected, _this scouting mission is not such a waste of my time after all…_

Aiden was insatiable, sucking on Madison's bleeding breast until she lost all sense of time and space. Still fully clothed himself, the vampire lord held her nude body erect above the carpeted floor of the suite as his thirsty mouth drained her of volition. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, flowing down his chin to stain his black brocade shirt. Madison knew she should protest, before her master emptied her beyond recovery, but she couldn't bring herself to let go of Aiden's flowing black locks, let alone tear herself away from his strong, voracious lips. This was what she had always longed for, after all, and an orgasmic thrill rippled endlessly through her palpitating body as, eyes tightly shut, she tilted her head back, offering Aiden her throat as well as her breast, should he choose to partake of her pulsing jugular. _Bite me! Drink me!_ she entreated him lustily. _Make me yours!_

_BEEP-BEEP!_ The insistent ring of a cell phone interrupted nirvana. Madison's eyes snapped open, and her lips let out a whimper of dismay as abruptly, inconceivably, Aiden's mouth came away from her breast and his powerful arms let go of her body. _Wait!_ she wanted to cry out, feeling his strong, masculine form slip away from her. _Don't stop !_Tottering on unsteady legs, she watched in disbelief as the lord of the manor, who only seconds ago had been melded to her in an intimate bond of blood and desire, stepped across the room to retrieve his cell phone from a jacket hanging over the back of an eighteenth-century ebony chair. Ignoring Madison completely, he raised the phone to his ear. "What is it?" he demanded, casually wiping her immortal blood from his lips with the back of his hand. Madison heard the voice of Soren, Aiden's dour lieutenant, emerge from the electronic mouthpiece. "She's here," he reported gruffly. _Ashley,_ she realized instantly, her humiliation complete. _Who else could it be? _His face still flushed and ruddy with Madison's crimson essence, his shirtfront still stained with the scarlet excess of his salacious feast, Aiden rushed out of the suite without a word, leaving Madison standing naked and alone on the Persian carpet, abandoned, discarded, and almost completely drained of blood. 

Soren already had arrived at the front door when Aiden stormed into the spacious foyer. The stone-faced janissary was blocking the open doorway with his body. He clearly had no intention of letting Ashley into the mansion before the sun rose. Aiden appreciated the sentiment but was not quite ready to see Ashley's flawless body reduced to ashes. "Let her pass," he instructed sourly. Displaying not even a smidgen of gratitude for Aiden's leniency, Ashley shoved Soren aside and stalked into the mansion. Her eyes made contact with Aiden's, then looked away in contempt. She strode past him without so much as a word of greeting, let alone an apology for her numerous transgressions. Astounded by her insolence, Aiden chased her down the corridor. With dawn only minutes away, most of the coven already had retired for the day, but a few stragglers still hurried to and fro about the mansion, taking care of various last-minute chores before seeking their respective quarters. These miscellaneous vampires watched the unfolding scene with curiosity and concern, all the while trying not to be too conspicuous in their eavesdropping.

Aiden's ruddy face, already encrimsoned by Madison's blood, flushed even darker. Bad enough that Ashley was already flouting his Authority, but did she have to do so in front of an audience? The embattled vampire regent could hear the scurrilous gossip burning his ears already. He hurled accusations at her back. "Not only have you broken the Chain, you've been harbouring a lycan. A capital offense!" Not even the threat of execution slowed Ashley's determined trek through the mansion. He guessed that she was heading toward the crypt to see Raife, blatantly going over his head. _Not if I have anything to say about it!_ he vowed furiously, catching up with her before she reached the stairs at the rear of the mansion. Grabbing her arm, he forcefully steered her into the relative privacy of a secluded alcove. _Under no circumstances are you speaking with Raife before I have words with you. _Metal shutters descended over the tinted windows lining the alcove, throwing the unlit niche deep into shadow. Aiden spun Ashley around, forcing her to look him in the face. He saw neither fear nor guilt in her scornful gaze, which only infuriated him more. "How could you do this to me?" he raged, his fingers digging into her arm. "Embarrass me like this? The entire coven knows that I have plans for us!"

"There is no us!" she spat back defiantly. Her eyes regarded him with disgust. Aiden lost his temper entirely. He slammed her against the sealed windows, causing the metal shutters to ring out. "You will go before Raife and tell him exactly what I tell you. From here on out, you will do as I say." Eerie blue eyes and bared fangs demonstrated the dire extremity of his displeasure. "Is that in any way unclear?"

Ashley answered with a lightning-fast blow to his face. _Wham!_ Her palm snapped up, smashing against his nose with expertly measured force—not enough to break anything but sufficient to send a jolt of misery straight to his brain. He dropped to one knee, blood trickling down his face. Ashley took advantage of the moment to pull away from his grasp. She exited the alcove in a flash, the tail of her trench coat snapping in her wake. Aiden tasted his own blood upon his lips. Fortunately, after feasting on Madison, he had plenty to spare. He smirked as he licked the blood from around his mouth. At least he had provoked some sort of response from Ashley, cracking her veneer of frosty detachment. _Not exactly the type of foreplay I would have preferred,_ he thought lewdly, _but it will do for now. _Climbing to his feet, he charged after her, elbowing his way through a throng of gaping _nosferatu._ He pursued her down the marble stairway leading to the crypt, arriving at its underground entrance just in time to see an impenetrable steel door slam shut. He heard the tamperproof locking mechanism clank into place as Ashley sealed the crypt from inside, stranding him in the hushed viewing chamber, unable to take part in Ashley's pending reunion with Raife. "Blast it!" he cursed, consumed with frustration. Who knew what the treacherous Death Dealer was telling Raife at this very moment? 

Ashley approached the recovery chamber with apprehension, the genuine satisfaction she had taken in smashing Aiden's face fading quickly as she faced the prospect of justifying her recent actions to Raife. Aiden was not wrong when he accused her of violating the coven's most sacred laws and traditions. She could only pray that Raife would understand why she had been forced to do so. _I awoke him with my own blood,_ she recalled hopefully. _He already knows what is in my heart. _The skeletal figure of the Elder waited for her to draw nearer, standing imperiously amid the high-tech trappings of the recovery chamber as though it were a gilded throne room. Ashley saw with some relief that Raife already had regained a portion of his former substance. Although still unnaturally gaunt and wizened, he no longer appeared quite so mummyish. There was a bit more flesh on his bony frame, and his chalky gray skin was not quite as stiff as parchment. Sunken eyes fell upon her, holding a strange mixture of joy and sorrow. Intravenous tubing pumped oxygenated red blood into his immortal veins. He beckoned for her to approach the Plexiglas barrier between them. "Come closer, my child," he rasped drily. 

The guard looked up in surprise as Aiden barged into the security booth. He was one of Soren's men, replacing the previous watchman, who had been stripped of his rank and duties for his carelessness in letting Ashley trick him away from his post. If and when Aiden survived the next twenty-four hours, he fully intended to have the earlier guard flayed within an inch of his eternal life. For now, however, Aiden had more important mishaps to contend with. Without bothering to offer the new guard a word of explanation, he grabbed the startled vampire by the shoulders and forcibly ejected him from the booth. Then he yanked the door to the service corridor shut, ensuring that no one besides himself could witness whatever was transpiring in the crypt between Raife and Ashley. _I must know what they are saying!_ Aiden thought frantically as he hastily fired up a security monitor. An anxious look washed over his face as he beheld a televised image of Ashley approaching the risen Elder. He gulped in anticipation of what she might divulge, even as he assured himself that there was absolutely no excuse for her egregious crimes against the coven. No excuse at all. 

Ashley bowed reverently before Raife, then humbly began her explanation. "I have been lost without you, my lord. Constantly hounded by Aiden and his never-ending infatuation." A death's-head grin appeared on Raife's horrific countenance. "It is the oldest story in the annals of mankind," the Elder said knowingly. "He most desires the one thing he cannot have." Ashley smiled, grateful for Raife's apparent understanding. An overwhelming rush of relief came over her. Perhaps this encounter would not be as terrible as she had feared. _Everything I've done has been to ensure the safety of the coven. Raife surely will recognize that! _The grin disappeared from Raife's face, and his sonorous voice took on a sterner tone. Ashley realized with a shudder that she may have counted her blessings too soon. "Now, tell me, why have you come to believe that Glen still lives?" 

Spying from the security booth, Aiden felt a chill more than equal to the one Ashley was now experiencing. This was the very topic he had been dreading. No good could come from Ashley and Raife invoking Glen's name. He bent closer to the booth's loudspeaker, dismayed by what he was hearing yet hanging on every word. _Keep your mouth shut, you back-stabbing slut!_ he thought heatedly, wishing he could reach through the monitor to choke Ashley into silence. _You can't prove a thing! _His cell phone rang unexpectedly, startling him. "What in blazes?" he muttered, reaching for the beeping device. His anxious gaze stayed fixed on the monitor screen as he lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?" 

_I have nothing to be ashamed of,_ Ashley reminded herself. She met Raife's forbidding gaze with fearless brown eyes, her chin held high. "But I've given you all the proof you need," she protested. Her wrist itched where she earlier had gnawed open her veins to share her blood—and her memories—with the Elder. "Incoherent thoughts and images," Raife said dismissively "Nothing more. Which is why an awakening always must be performed by an Elder. You do not possess the necessary skills." _I know that,_ Ashley thought urgently. She had never expected that the catalyst drip would bring Raife completely up to speed, the way it would have if Arthur or Christine had performed the ritual. Ordinarily, under far less exceptional circumstances, the drip was the means by which the Elders maintained an unbroken progression of memories throughout the ages, with each Elder passing on two centuries' worth of accumulated knowledge and experience to the Elder who succeeded him or her. Ashley could not hope to have managed such a seamless transference, yet surely, she prayed with all her heart, something of her recent discoveries and suspicions must have penetrated Raife's newly awakened consciousness. The evidence of conspiracy was simply too alarming to ignore. "But I did see Glen," she insisted. "I shot him! You must believe me!" Raife's shrivelled lips turned downward. Unmistakable anger infused his parched voice with a threatening edge. "The Chain has never been broken," he declared ominously. "Not once, not in more than fourteen centuries. Not since we Elders first began to leapfrog through time. One awake, two asleep—that is the way of it." His accusing eyes raked her over. "It is Arthur's turn to reign, not mine!" 

Aiden paced back and forth within the security booth. His fretful eyes intently watched the security monitor, even as he listened to the intimidating voice on the other end of the line. _Speak of the devil,_ the scheming regent thought unhappily. Glen was demanding an update on the status of tonight's operations. Aiden felt as though he were being torn in half by two equally formidable entities. _Whom do I fear more?_ he asked himself. _Raife or Glen? The Elder or the most fierce of the werewolves? _"There's been a complication," he stammered into the phone, uncertain how to break the news of Raife's revival to the unforgiving lycan leader. Would Glen blame him for Raife's untimely return to the waking world? _It's all Ashley's fault,_ he fumed silently. _She and her wolfen Juliet!_

Ashley tried to maintain her composure beneath Raife's scalding gaze. "But I had no choice," she argued, knowing that her words might spell the difference between immortality and oblivion for her entire species. "The coven is in danger, and Spencer is the key. I know it!"

"Ah, yes," Raife said venomously. "The lycan." There was a harshness in his voice that Ashley never had heard before. The venerated Elder had always been like a father to her, ever since the night her mortal family perished. She would have trusted him with her life. But did he still trust her? "Please," she pleaded. "Just give me the chance to get the proof you require." 

In the security booth, Aiden switched off his phone, his ears still ringing with the sound of Glen's biting disapproval. The lycan had not been amused by the latest developments at the mansion. Aiden feared his prickly alliance with Glen was now strained to the breaking point. Wiping his sweaty brow, he directed his full attention back to the security monitor, just in time to hear his own name being invoked over the intercom. "I will leave it to Aiden to collect the proof, if there is any," Raife declared. Ashley reacted with shock to the Elder's pronouncement, unable to conceal the hurt in her voice. "How can you trust him over me?"

"Because," Raife thundered, "he's not the one who has been tainted by an animal!" Aiden's face lit up. He had never seen the Elder so incensed before, yet Raife's awesome fury seemed directed at Ashley alone. _Perhaps,_ the regent thought, _my luck has changed._

Heartbroken and disillusioned, Ashley listened numbly as Raife weighed forth upon her crimes. That she heard a degree of sorrow in his stentorian voice was meagre consolation. "I love you like a daughter," Raife intoned solemnly, "but you've left me with no choice. Our rules are in place for good reason—and they are the only reason our kind has survived this long. You will not be shown an ounce of leniency. When Christine arrives after sunset, the Council will convene to decide your fate." His austere visage and dolorous tone offered no promise of mercy. "You have broken the Chain and the Covenant. You must be judged." She had little doubt what that judgment would be. 

Madison watched as Ashley was escorted through the salon and up the grand staircase by four armed guards. Grim-faced, Aiden and Soren accompanied the party as they led the accused Death Dealer toward her quarters in the east wing of the mansion. Unsurprisingly, Aiden did not even spare Madison a glance as he passed her by, despite their intimate encounter less than an hour ago. A cluster of curious vampires gathered at the foot of the stairs, exchanging rumour and gossip in excited whispers. Was it true what they were saying? Had Ashley really awakened Raife all on her own, without Aiden's permission? Was she secretly in bed with a lycan? Madison snaked through the nattering crowd, keeping a close eye on Ashley and her imposing entourage. The servant vamp had put her lacy uniform back on, yet her abused feelings still felt raw and exposed. She couldn't forget the way Aiden had left her naked and abandoned the instant he'd received word of Ashley's return. She felt exploited, used, like an empty bottle of blood left discarded after a drunken binge. _He never really cared about me,_ she realized, her lacerated breast still sore from Aiden's ravenous attentions. _Not for a single moment. All he cares about is Ashley. _

Disengaging from the crush of undead bystanders, she stealthily crept up the stairs after Aiden and the others. No one noticed her depart. She was just a chambermaid, after all, meaningless, invisible. Madison followed Ashley and her captors, taking care to keep a safe distance back, until the party reached the entrance to Ashley's quarters. Madison ducked into a small, unfrequented alcove. Peering around the corner, she felt a jealous pang as she observed Aiden disappear into the suite after Ashley, pulling the door shut behind him. Soren and his goon squad remained in the hallway outside the suite, sullenly standing watch like bouncers at an exclusive nightclub. Only the presence of the guards kept Madison from running down the hall and placing her ear against the door. Despite everything that had happened since the sun went down last night, or perhaps because of it, she desperately yearned to know what was going on behind the solid pine door. What could possibly be transpiring between Aiden and Ashley? 

Ashley wished that Aiden would simply leave her alone. Her ghastly confrontation with Raife had left her depleted and drained of spirit; the last thing she needed right now was Aiden's egocentric gloating. "You should have listened to me and stayed out of this," he scolded her petulantly. "Now you'll be lucky if I can convince the Council to spare your life." When Ashley declined to reply, let alone plead for clemency, he whirled around and stomped toward the door. To her surprise, Ashley discovered she still had loathing enough to fire off a parting shot. "Tell me," she asked him coldly, "did you have the nerve to cut the skin from his arm, or did Glen do it for you?" Aiden stumbled, missing his stride. He spun around in stunned chagrin, glaring at her as though he had just been sucker-punched. His stricken expression instantly confirmed what Ashley already had concluded: Aiden was in league with Glen and had been for a long time. _Traitor!_ Her pitiless eyes accused him. Aiden gulped, then, with great effort, regained his composure. He somehow managed a sneering grin. "Mark my words. Soon you'll be seeing things my way." He fled the room, unwilling to give Ashley a chance to have the last word. The door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the light fixtures on the wall. Ashley heard a key lock the door from the outside, making her a prisoner in her own chambers. Metal shutters covered the window Spencer had shattered when she first fled the mansion. The shuttered aperture held no escape for her, not while the sun was shining brightly outdoors. Knowing better, she approached the door to the hall, unable to resist the temptation to try the lock. She laid her hand on the crystal doorknob. "Don't even think about it," Soren said gruffly from the other side. 

The door banged shut, making Madison jump. Still hidden in the gloomy alcove, she listened carefully as Aiden issued instructions to Soren and his men. "No one opens this door, understood? I can't afford to have my future queen running off with that lycan again." Aiden's words stabbed Madison like a wooden stake through her heart. _Future queen. _Nothing had changed, she realized. Even after all of Ashley's rejections and betrayals, after Madison had given freely of her own precious blood and body, Aiden was still obsessed with Ashley. Always Ashley. Madison retreated into the sheltering alcove, blending with the shadows as Aiden stormed past her down the hall. The betrayed and broken-hearted servant girl felt the last ember of her devotion die, replaced by a longing for something very new and different from what she always craved before. Revenge. 


	22. Chapter 22

_**Chapter Twenty-two**_

Sunlight poured through the window of the safe house, warming Spencer's bones but doing little to exorcise the fears and frustrations tormenting her febrile mind, which finally had drifted into unconsciousness after long, agonizing hours spent handcuffed to the massive chair. Drenched in sweat, she shifted uneasily in her seat, as another round of disturbing images invaded her dreams.

_A __spine like whip forged of gleaming silver vertebrae lashes out at her, stripping the flesh from her bones…Tears course down the face of her beloved Kyla as she struggles futilely against the iron torture device confining her. Her eerie blue eyes lock onto her, filled with a poignant mixture of fear and sorrow…Like a flock of malignant gargoyles, the vampire Council perch atop regal stone pillars, glaring down at the prisoners with utter contempt. Their bone-white faces hold no mercy for either her or Kyla as they contemplate their captives' respective tortures with icy disdain…Not far away, trapped behind bars of silver-iron alloy, Spencer's pack brothers snarl and growl in protest. They hurl their weak human bodies against the bars of the dungeon, desperate to come to her aid, but their frenzied efforts come to naught…The silver whip cracks forth again…_

Spencer jerked awake, her back still feeling the savage bite of the lash. She blinked in confusion, uncertain of her location. It took her several heartbeats to realize that the murky, torchlight dungeon was gone, replaced by the more mundane environment of Ashley's safe house in Budapest. Without thinking, she tried to rub her eyes with her knuckles, only to have the motion halted abruptly by the metal chain cuffing her to the chair. _That's right,_ she remembered. _I'm trapped. _The realization provoked an irate response. Grunting in exertion, she tugged furiously on the chain cuffing her to the chair. She rocked back and forth in the seat, throwing her entire body into the effort. The cuffs didn't yield by even a fraction of an inch. "Son of a bitch!" Spencer gasped, out of breath from her exertions. It was no use; she and the heavy titanium chair were stuck together. Thanks to Ashley. What was Ashley thinking, leaving her trapped like this? _Oh, yeah,_ she recalled. _She was afraid I was going to get all fanged and furry out when the full moon rose tonight. _"Werewolf, my ass," she muttered. She refused to accept Ashley's insane prognosis. True, she was definitely coming down with _something_—she still felt queasy and feverish—but lycanthropy? _Give me a break!_

As she looked around for some way out, her gaze fell on the automatic pistol resting in her lap. Loaded with silver bullets, no less, more evidence of how completely preposterous her life had become. Spencer remembered using a similar gun to free herself from Ashley's sinking Jaguar two nights ago. _Wait a second,_ she thought, as a wild idea struck her. It was a desperate, possibly dangerous measure, but what other options did she have? Trembling, she lifted the gun from her lap. Her sweaty palm wrapped around the cold steel grip of the weapon. Acting quickly, before she had a chance to talk herself out of what she had in mind, she pressed the muzzle of the gun against the implacable metal chain. She closed her eyes, turned her head, and pulled the trigger. _BANG! _The recoil and loud report were too much for Spencer, who flinched spasmodically, dropping the gun. The falling weapon skittered across the naked wooden floor, eventually coming to rest a foot beyond Spencer's reach. _Just as well,_ she figured, opening her eyes; she doubted she had the nerve to try this harebrained stunt again. She had half expected to be killed instantly by a ricochet. But had it worked? Breathing hard, she turned to inspect the maddeningly stubborn cuffs. Her heart sank immediately. The chain wasn't even scratched.

Sean paced the floor of the dojo as his troops prepared for duty. A full score of Death Dealers, male and female alike, loaded their weapons with solid silver cartridges. Christine was due to arrive at the train station within hours, shortly after sundown, and Sean intended to make sure that the Elder was greeted by a full security detail. With all the lycan activity over the last few nights, nothing could be left to chance. _A pity,_ he thought, _that there hasn't been time to mass-produce the new silver nitrate rounds._ So far, the gun on his workbench was the only working prototype. One face was conspicuously absent from the assembled brigade: Ashley's. Sean couldn't help wondering what had become of the resourceful woman, whom he had always considered one of his most steadfast and determined comrades. _Is it true what they're saying about her?_ he thought, hiding his doubts behind a mask of cool professionalism. He found it hard to believe that Ashley, of all immortals, would betray them out of love for a lycan. Yet that was what Aiden had declared, presumably with the full backing of Raife himself. Sean had yet to confer with Raife directly, since Sean had restricted access to the crypt during the Elder's period of recuperation, but he couldn't imagine that even Aiden would be so arrogant as to accuse Ashley of treason without Raife's tacit approval. _And who am I to question the judgment of an Elder?_ Sean shook his head, allowing a slight scowl to convey his unhappiness. Something was not right here; it had been Ashley, after all, who had stood in this very loft only two nights ago, arguing vehemently that the lycans were up to something big. How could she have completely switched her loyalties over the last forty hours or so—unless her heated show of concern had been meant to divert suspicion from herself?

Sean angrily inserted a cartridge into his own modified AK-47 assault rifle. He hated all this double-agent espionage bullshit; he was a soldier, not a spymaster. _Just give me something howling and hairy to shoot,_ he thought sourly. _Preferably at close range. _Footsteps on the stairs alerted Sean to the arrival of Aiden to the dojo. The regent was dressed to the nines, no doubt in anticipation of Christine's approaching advent. His silky black suit stood in marked contrast to the reinforced leather gear of Sean and his fellow Death Dealers. Sean hefted his rifle, cradling it against his chest. "We're ready," he informed Aiden. "Change of plans," the regent announced offhandedly. A self-satisfied smirk was Sean's first warning that something was amiss. "The Lady Christine will be picked up by Soren and his team." Sean's jaw dropped. "That's our job," he insisted, and with good reason; he had personally overseen the security at the last five Awakenings. "Not anymore," Aiden said smugly, not even bothering to conceal his perverse enjoyment of the other vampire's consternation. It seemed unthinkable that Aiden had ever been a Death Dealer, let alone the esteemed slayer of Glen. _How can he do this,_ Sean thought in disbelief, _and why?_ The safety of Christine was too important to play political power games with. Wheels of suspicion began to churn behind Sean's shrewd brown eyes as Aiden turned his back on the mansion's military commander and blithely strolled away. Perhaps Ashley was not the traitor in their ranks? 

The sun set on the Nyugati train station in the north-western corner of Pest. A row of black limousines was parked beside a glassed-in platform that had been expressly cleared of humankind. Seated within the lead limousine, Soren watched the sinking sun through the dark, polarized windows of the car, waiting until the last traces of daylight had vanished from the sky before emerging from the limo, an unreadable expression on his face. Flanked on both sides by armed security forces, he stared expectantly at the empty platform. Off in the distance, from somewhere to the west, he heard the unmistakable rumbling of an approaching steam engine. _Right on time,_ he thought coldly. Within seconds, a jet-black passenger train chugged into view, pulled by a vintage 1930s locomotive, impeccably maintained. An old-fashioned steam engine powered the locomotive's chugging pistons and connecting rods as the privately owned train came roaring into the station amidst squealing brakes and scalding blasts of steam. Soren retrieved a laser pointer from his pocket and, as agreed, fired off three quick ruby pulses as the train slowed to a stop. The pulses were to assure Christine's bodyguards that the station had been secured and vetted by Aiden's security forces. His signal was promptly acknowledged by an answering pulse, visible through the tinted window of the forward passenger car. Soren visualized his counterpart aboard the train, signalling Christine's entourage that the platform was safe.

So far, all was going according to plan. Soren's stolid features gave no indication that anything exceptional was occurring, not even as a hairy claw broke through the steam fogging the platform. He watched cold-bloodedly as four enormous werewolves, black fur bristling from their grotesque, subhuman bodies, stealthily crept up the side of the train and onto its roof. 

Although nearly fifteen centuries old, the Lady Christine had the youthful beauty and haughty carriage of an international supermodel. Her lustrous black hair bound tightly on her gracefully sculpted head, she looked out at the world through imperious green eyes. A strapless satin gown exposed slender white shoulders, while a jewelled silver pendant, large enough to shame the crown jewels of many a mortal kingdom, rested on the flawless ivory expanse of her bosom. Accompanied by her entourage and bodyguards, she strode down the center of a pushily fitted dining car toward the exit ahead. The trip from New York, by way of Vienna, had been a long one, and she looked forward to arriving at Ordoghaz before too much time passed. There, in accordance with their ancient traditions, she would go down into the earth for another two hundred years of tranquil repose. In truth, she yearned for the unbroken quiet of the crypt. The twentieth century had been a wearying one, rife with war and turmoil among the mortal world, and the present era looked to be no less trying. She was happy to let Arthur cope with the challenges to come. Perhaps the world would be a more orderly place when next she rose from the tomb, two centuries hence. _I rather doubt it,_ she lamented inwardly. Immortality had taught her realism, among other things. The regal procession swept down the passageway, past rich cherrywood panels with polished gold fittings. Tinted orange light bulbs mimicked dancing flames atop gilded electric lamps fashioned in the shape of antique candelabra, the ersatz candlelight casting a gentle glow over the train's interior. A leather-clad Death Dealer led the way, cradling a loaded submachine gun against his chest, while Christine's neatly groomed attendants and ladies-in-waiting trailed dutifully behind her. Distinguished members of the Council, their elegant attire adorned by badges and emblems that signified their illustrious status, kept pace with the Elder and her retinue. The oldest among them already had attended many previous Awakenings. No doubt, they expected the transition to proceed as smoothly as ever.

A peculiar noise, like something scratching at the roof of the car, caught the attention of Christine and her attendants. She glanced up briefly at the ceiling, as did several of her ladies-in-waiting. For a second, a flicker of apprehension passed through the aristocratic immortal. Was something amiss? She swiftly dismissed the notion. Aiden and his people had already secured the platform outside. Between her own complement of bodyguards and the additional Death Dealers from the mansion, it was foolish to imagine that any danger could await her here. _It has been an interminable journey,_ she reflected. _I must not let my chafed nerves get the better of me at the very end of my travels. _At the far end of the lushly appointed dining car, a narrow vestibule preceded the car's closed steel door. Christine waited with superhuman patience as the leader of her Death Dealers unlocked the compartment and slid open the door. She expected to see a moonlit platform, peopled only by those vampires who had been honoured with the task of transporting her to Ordoghaz. She wondered briefly if Aiden would be present to greet her personally or if he awaited her back at the mansion. It mattered little to her; Aiden was Raife's protégé, not hers.

Instead of a welcoming party however, the sliding door opened to reveal the gigantic form of a ravening werewolf clinging to the side of the train. Saliva dripped from the monster's gaping jaws, even as two more man-beasts dropped loudly onto the platform behind him. A foul, musky scent invaded the vestibule, while bestial growls broke the silence. _By the Blood of the Ancestor!_ A flicker of surprise registered on Christine's immaculate features, less than a heartbeat before the creature lunged at her with terrifying speed, throwing the startled Death Dealer effortlessly aside. Knifelike claws and teeth tore into immortal flesh… 

On the platform, Soren and his so-called security team watched impassively as the grisly sounds of a massacre escaped the train. Anguished screams mixed with the roar of both gunfire and rampaging beasts. Immortal blood sprayed the polarized windows from inside, painting abstract designs of crimson on the tinted glass. Soren made no attempt to intervene in the lycanthropic feeding frenzy, even as the pitiful cries of Christine and her entourage gave way to a wet, sticky symphony of crunching bones and tearing flesh. _Yes,_ he thought once more. All was going exactly according to plan. 


	23. Chapter 23

_**Chapter Twenty-three**_

With the fall of night, the metal shutters rose from Ashley's windows, permitting her a view of the grounds outside the mansion. Armed sentries—Soren's people, not Sean's—prowled the spacious front yard, each of the soldiers armed to the teeth, while two more guards were stationed directly beneath her window. Aiden clearly had no intention of letting her slip away again. _When did Ordoghaz become a police state?_ she thought bitterly. _And why has Raife sided with Aiden against me? _Her gaze shifted from the lawn below to the starry night sky. The storm clouds of the previous nights finally had blown away so that nothing obscured the eerie silver radiance of the moon, which hung large and full above the horizon. The sight of the moon instantly turned her thoughts to Spencer—and to the vile infection transforming her from within. _I left her the gun,_ she remembered grimly, _and the silver bullets. _But would Spencer have the wisdom to use the Beretta in time? 

Still cuffed to the titanium chair, Spencer dozed uncomfortably on the bare wooden floor, her back propped up against the immovable seat. She twitched and moaned fitfully as she slept, besieged by alien thoughts and memories.

_Running madly through the dense Carpathian forest, the silver arrows of __her enemies flying past her head like angry wasps…Feeling the Change upon her, gaining strength and vigour as she gladly sheds her clumsy human form. Growing claws and fangs to match the bloodthirsty fury in her soul…_

Moonlight fell upon Spencer's unconscious form, and every hair on her body leaped up as though electrified. 

The dusty utility closet was tucked away in an unfrequented corner of Ordoghaz, known only to the mansion's staff of menials. Madison doubted that Aiden could have found the closet—and the fuse box within—even if his eternal life depended on it. _Sometimes there are advantages to being at the bottom of the pecking order, _the red-eyed servant girl thought. Dried tears stained her alabaster cheeks, while the sting of her shoddy treatment at Aiden's hands festered deep inside her broken heart. _If he thinks he can just throw me over in favour of Ashley, well, he's got another think coming. _The closet was dark and unlit, but Madison could see easily in the gloom. Opening a metal panel, she reached inside and laid a small white hand upon a switch. At the last minute, she hesitated, holding her breath as she reconsidered her reckless scheme. Was she really going to do this? _Hell, yes!_ she thought indignantly, and threw the switch. 

In the recovery chamber, deep within the bowels of the mansion, Raife reclined upon a large white chair, whose grandiose dimensions gave it the appearance of a throne. He rested motionlessly as his famished body soaked up a revitalizing infusion of fresh human blood. The intricate life-support apparatus hummed and gurgled in the background, while the soft halogen lights exposed a chalky white figure noticeably less cadaverous than before. As the blood nourished him, Raife considered the unusual—indeed, unprecedented—circumstances surrounding his premature resurrection. Ashley's obscene betrayal was disappointing enough, yet he had grave doubts regarding Aiden as well. Clearly, he and Christine would have much to discuss when his fellow Elder arrived at the mansion later this evening. _And then,_ he silently resolved, _there will be changes made. _Without warning, the lights went out, interrupting his chain of thought. Even with his eyes closed, the sudden blackness was too jarring to overlook. An emergency siren went off, signalling a breach in the mansion's security. Raife's eyes snapped open, exposing their inhuman blue. _By the Ancestor,_ he raged, _is there no end to this chaos?_

The lights blinked off all over the mansion, from the crypt to the dojo, where, several floors above the recovery chamber, Sean looked up in surprise at the unexpected blackout. Red-tinted security lights switched on as emergency backups kicked in, throwing a lurid scarlet glow over the training area. Sean saw his assembled Death Dealers looking about in confusion; the mansion had never come under attack within the memory of even the oldest immortal. _What the devil?_

The ear-piercing alarm continued to shriek as Ashley ran back to her window. Peering downward, she saw Soren's guards go scrambling toward the other side of the estate, guns drawn. Her undead heart beat faster. She had no idea what the source of the disturbance was, but she knew that this was her chance. Perhaps she still could get to Spencer before the blonde started changing? Before she could react, however, the door banged open, and Madison came rushing into the suite. Glancing past the uninvited servant girl, Ashley saw that the guards posted outside the door had disappeared as well, no doubt joining their comrades to investigate whatever had triggered the alarm. _Better and better, _the captive Death Dealer thought, not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth. But first there was Madison to deal with. Without a word of explanation, the young vampiress tossed Ashley a bulging nylon pouch. She swiftly unzipped the bag and was surprised to discover a pair of Berettas inside. Confused but grateful, she directed a quizzical look at Madison. Up until now, Ashley had judged the pert younger maidservant to be thoroughly in Aiden's thrall. "Why are you helping me?" Madison rolled her eyes, as if amazed that Ashley didn't get it. "I'm not," she stated emphatically. "I'm helping me." _Whatever,_ Ashley decided. The servant girl's personal agenda was the least of her concerns. She smiled appreciatively as Madison threw her a set of car keys, a strange mixture of fear and exhilaration washing over the younger vampiress' face. There was still an empty gap in the window where Spencer had dived through it only the night before. Following the young doctor's lead, Ashley dashed to the open window and leaped over the edge. _Hang on, Spencer!_ she thought anxiously, even as the soles of her boots touched down on the damp lawn. _I'm on my way!_

Singe had almost nodded off behind the wheel of the van when his keen ears picked up the sound of the mansion's gates sliding open. He looked up in time to see that same gray sedan come rocketing out of the manor's driveway, throwing up a spray of gravel as it took a sharp turn onto the road leading back to the city. A familiar dark-haired vampiress occupied the driver's seat. _Ashley. _The lycan scientist immediately went into action, firing up the engine of the slumbering van. After having spent the entire day staked out across from the vampires' lair, he was not about to lose track of his quarry now. There had been nobody else in the car with Ashley, at least not that he could see, but perhaps she was even now racing back to Spencer Carlin's side. _Not without me, you're not,_ he resolved. The lycan gunmen in the back of the van grunted in protest as the van executed an abrupt U-turn and took off speeding down the road after the gray sedan. 

The wailing alarm screamed in Aiden's ears and gnawed on his nerves as he burst from the privacy of his suite into the hall outside. Sean and several tense-looking Death Dealers came racing down the darkened corridor, the incandescent beams of their flashlights raking the walls. The leather-clad warriors seemed to be in full-blown panic mode. Not a good sign. "What's going on?" Aiden demanded. As far as he knew, the present upset had nothing to do with his and Glen's plans for tonight, unless perhaps the nefarious lycan commander had double-crossed him? An icy chill ran down his spine at the very idea. Sean hastily answered Aiden. "The perimeter sensor's been tripped!" he explained, clutching a loaded automatic rifle. "We're locking down the mansion!" _But it's too early,_ Aiden thought in alarm. _I haven't lowered our defenses yet! _The plan was to allow Glen and his forces to stage a successful "sneak attack" upon the mansion. Aiden would place his own people at key locations, while diverting Sean and his Death Dealers to where they could do the least harm. Later, after Glen personally disposed of Raife and Arthur, Aiden would step forward to take undisputed control of both the Old and New World covens, eventually striking a historic peace agreement with Glen that would leave Aiden covered in glory—and free to disband the Death Dealers once and for all, replacing them completely with Soren's handpicked security force, whose loyalty was to Aiden alone. _Then Ashley had to complicate matters by reviving Raife ahead of schedule! _Now the crisis was upon them, forcing him toward a perilous confrontation he had hoped to avoid. _Can even Glen overcome Raife,_ the scheming regent pondered, _now that the Elder had regained much of his legendary strength? _Adding to the confusion, Madison came running up behind Sean and his security team. Aiden felt a stab of irritation—_now what does the stupid wench want?_—until her panicked face and obvious distress caught his attention. "It's Ashley!" she gasped breathlessly. "She's escaped, to go to her… Spencer!" A jealous fury drove Aiden's fears from his mind. The thought of Ashley rushing to her mangy lover's arms infuriated him beyond reason. He shouted angrily to anyone within earshot: "I want that lycan's head on a plate!"

The gray sedan careened through the city streets, racing against fate and the insidious influence of the rising moon. Behind the wheel of the speeding vehicle, Ashley glimpsed the moon shining between the thickly clustered high-rises and wondered if she was already too late. Had Spencer delayed her transformation by shooting herself with the silver bullet, or had she already metamorphosed into an unreasoning beast? The very thought of Spencer physically changing into a werewolf distressed her more than she wanted to admit. She prayed that the blonde would find the strength to resist the infection until she could make it back to her—even if it ultimately meant that she would have to kill Spencer herself. She breathed a sigh of relief as the safe house loomed into view. She had broken multiple speed limits, and very nearly the sound barrier, getting to Budapest from the mansion in less than an hour. Now that she had almost reached her destination, however, she found that she had no plan beyond discovering whether Spencer was still human. _And if she is,_ she asked herself pointedly, _what then? _She had no idea. The sedan squealed to a halt in the deserted alley beside the safe house. No lights shone through the building's windows; the coven kept the five-story edifice conveniently unoccupied. Seconds later, Ashley was dashing up the front steps of the building and unlocking the door. She slipped inside the desolate structure as swiftly and silently as a wraith. In her haste, she failed to notice the ominous black van slowing to a stop across the street. 

"After her! Don't let her get away!" Singe barked at his lycan foot soldiers. His avid eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt, an invigorating frisson not unlike the heady excitement of scientific discovery. For all he knew, the elusive Spencer Carlin was only meters away, somewhere in the dilapidated-looking edifice the vampiress had just entered. His heart pounded in anticipation. Once he had the specimen in his grasp, the final phase of Singe's great experiment could begin. Just to play it safe, he hastily contacted Pierce and Taylor by cell phone, alerting them to his location. "Remember!" he called out to his men moments later, as the lycan soldiers piled out of the back of the van. Semiautomatic weapons armed with UV ammo glistened beneath the streetlights. "Take the female human alive—at all costs!" He hurried after the commandos, unwilling to forgo the conclusion of their long chase. His boots raced up the steps of the building. "The vampire bitch is expendable!" 

Ashley took the steps two at a time, dreading what she might find on the top floor of the empty building. She was not so intent on climbing the stairs, though, that her keen ears failed to detect the alarming sound of racing bootsteps three stories below. Someone was chasing after her; from the sound of it, several someones. _Who?_ she wondered anxiously. She peered over the wrought-iron rail at the winding staircase behind her, half expecting to find a squad of determined Death Dealers on her tail. She had no illusions that her former comrades would show her any mercy, not after all she'd done over the last few nights. _I wouldn't trust me, either,_ she acknowledged. But instead of a crack team of undead warriors, she saw six thuggish figures in shabby brown attire. Not vampires at all, then. Lycans. _They must have followed me,_ she realized. And she had led them straight to Spencer! The lycans charged up the stairs below her. Badly outnumbered, Ashley realized she had only moments before the man-beasts caught up with her. Drawing her Beretta, she fired down at the oncoming lycans, who ducked away from her blistering fusillade yet kept on climbing toward her. Turning her back on the intruders, she sprinted up the last flight of stairs to the fifth floor, then ran like mad down the hall to the barren room where she had last seen Spencer. Would she still be there? Was she still remotely human? Ashley held her breath as she ran, hoping against hope that there was still some trace of the unlucky American left to rescue. 

Dead to the world, Spencer slumped against the cold steel legs of the interrogation chair. Her free hand clumsily groped at the empty air, as alien memories carried her mind back to a very different time and place.

_H__er hand delicately sweeps along the edge of a gilded vanity table, tenderly exploring a collection of ornate combs, hairpins, and perfume bottles. The beautiful objects are all the more precious because she knows they belong to Kyla. She longs to touch Kyla gently again, just as she now reverently fingers her things…_

An eruption of automatic gunfire rocked the apartment, jolting Spencer from her feverish delirium. Her bloodshot eyes jerked open, and she abruptly found herself back in the so-called safe house, which suddenly didn't seem all that safe. The thunderous weapons fire sounded as if it were coming from right outside the room. Spencer was still groggy and disoriented when the apartment door banged open and Ashley ran into the room. As ever, the brunette was clad entirely in black and sporting a smoking handgun. Ashley's feline grace and beauty struck Spencer even through her punch-drunk state, taking her breath away. Holstering the gun, Ashley retrieved a key from the pocket of her trench coat and hastily unlocked the blonde's cuffs. "We need to go," the vampiress said. Free at last, Spencer scrambled away from the chair with all due speed. "What is it?" she asked Ashley urgently, alarmed and confused. She heard multiple footsteps pounding on the stairs outside. "What's going on?"Ashley shook her head. Clearly, there was no time to explain. Raising her pistol, she aimed at the wall separating the apartment from the hall and unleashed a blistering salvo right through the flimsy barrier.

Plaster exploded beneath a hail of bullets, and bestial screams came from the hallway beyond. Spencer heard heavy bodies thump to the floor even as yet more guttural voices shouted in anger. Were those the voices of irate werewolves, she wondered, or were Ashley's fellow vampires after them now? And how crazy was it that those were actually the options? Ashley's long black coat swirled about her as she spun around and opened fire at the nearest window. Shattered glass burst outward, raining down on the street below, and Ashley turned to shout at Spencer. "Go, go, go!" she ordered the blonde. "Jump!" Spencer staggered over to the shattered window and stepped out onto the sill. She peered down at the glass-strewn pavement, some fifty feet below, then looked at Ashley in bug-eyed disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Before Ashley could answer her, four darkly garbed gunmen burst through the door. Their weapons blasted repeatedly, like a string of firecrackers, and luminous bullets popped and ricocheted off the metal window frame surrounding Spencer. She recoiled instinctively from the deafening assault, stumbling backward out the window. The sill disappeared beneath her feet, replaced by nothing but empty air and gravity. A panicked shriek tore out of Spencer's lungs as she plummeted toward certain doom, her arms and legs flailing wildly. Months of gory experience in the ER painted a vivid picture of her broken body splattered all over the sidewalk. _This is it,_ she thought. _I'm going to die. _Perhaps it was just as well...

The cold night air whipped past her falling body. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable (and almost certainly fatal) impact. At the last minute, however, her body instinctively twisted in midair, so that she landed feet first on the pavement, completely unharmed. Eyes wide, Spencer looked about herself in amazement, then tilted her head back to gaze up at the broken window, a full five stories overhead. Wow, she thought. Maybe there was something to this whole werewolf business, after all. 

A spent shell casing clattered to the floor. It rolled across the rough wooden timbers until it came to rest beside four bullet-stitched bodies. Pools of blood expanded outward from the scattered corpses, adding a crimson sheen to the floor. The last immortal standing, Ashley paused amidst the carnage, her gun smoking in her grip. She nodded with satisfaction at the fallen lycans; the old-fashioned silver ammo was still as effective as ever. The scent of so much spilled blood made her mouth water. _That was a close one,_ she acknowledged, wishing she knew why the lycans wanted Spencer so badly. _There's something I'm still not getting here. _The screech of peeling tires drew her attention to the street outside. Rushing to the window, she stared down in dismay as a blue-and-white police car pulled up to the curb less than a meter away from where Spencer was standing. A pair of uniformed officers piled out of the car and none too gently took hold of Spencer, forcing her into the back seat of the squad car. Spencer fought back, slugging one of the cops in the jaw, but, in her debilitated state, she was outnumbered and overpowered by the two men. _Bloody hell,_ Ashley thought.

Not for a second did she think that Spencer's attackers were genuine police officers. She recognized the telltale ferocity of lycans in disguise. Reinforcements, she guessed, probably summoned by the beast-men she had just killed. She took aim with her Beretta, determined not to let these new lycans steal Spencer away from her, and pulled the trigger. But instead of unleashing a fresh salvo of deadly silver bullets, the weapon merely clicked impotently. Out of ammo, she realized. _Damn! _Hurriedly she ejected the empty clip, but she was already too late. Before she even had a chance to reload, the squad car took off into the night, its siren howling as though the speeding vehicle were as wolfen as its passengers. Within seconds, it had disappeared into Budapest's busy nocturnal streets. Spencer was gone.

Her shoulders slumped, and her trigger arm dropped limply to her side as she stood silently in the bullet-riddled apartment, the lifeless bodies of her enemies strewn around her. Crimson puddles lapped at the heels of her black leather boots. _Now what do I do?_ she thought hopelessly. A feeble moan intruded upon her despair. Ashley spun away from the window, stunned to discover that one of the lycan casualties was still alive: a scrawny sort, middle-aged in appearance, who struck her as somewhat less thuggish than his associates. He looked more like a professor than a foot soldier, with close-cropped brown hair and a deeply furrowed brow. Older than the typical lycan berserker, the surviving intruder seemed an unlikely candidate for an assault team. He writhed helplessly on the floor, unable to lift himself out of a brackish pool of his own blood. _Interesting,_ Ashley thought. 


	24. Chapter 24

_**Chapter Twenty-four**_

Sean apprehensively eyed the huge amber orb hovering in the sky above him. The werewolves would be at their most feral tonight, he realized, a worried frown on his ebony features. Whose bright idea was it to schedule the Awakening on the first night of the full moon? Flanked by a trio of heavily armed Death Dealers, Sean patrolled the grounds of the estate, whose high iron gates no longer seemed quite impervious enough. He strode across the lawn toward a perimeter guard marching beside the front gate. There was a rustling in the shadows, and three large Rottweilers came bounding across the grass. The fearsome attack dogs enthusiastically greeted Sean, who doled out a round of affectionate pats to each of the eager canines. Saliva dripped from their powerful jaws. "Hey, guys." Sean could not help noting the similarities between the drooling guard dogs and the coven's lycanthropic enemies. The Rottweilers were arguably closer kin to werewolves than vampires, yet he had no doubts about the loyalty of these canine sentinels. _Besides,_ he thought, _trained vampire bats are simply not practical. _"Any luck?" he asked the guard, a vampire named Mason. The other man shook his head. "We've made the rounds twice. And believe me, the dogs would have been all over it if anything had even got near that fence." Sean nodded, trusting Mason's judgment. He was a Death Dealer, one of Sean's own, not a member of Soren's heavy-handed security force. If Mason said there were no lycans lurking about, Sean believed him.

Nonetheless, he still felt uneasy. He checked his watch, scowling at what it revealed. "Christine should have arrived by now," he observed, his deep voice filled with concern. He turned to the troika of Death Dealers accompanying him. "I want you three to slip off the property and find out what's keeping her." He stroked his chin unhappily. In theory, Soren was personally seeing to Christine's safety, yet Sean found himself increasingly uncomfortable with that notion. _Something's not right here,_ he thought once again. _I haven't felt this worried since Glen was alive._

The Lady Christine no longer looked quite so immaculate. Beaten and bloody, she sprawled prostrate on the floor of the dining car, her bruised cheek pressed against the blood-slick floor. Loose strands of raven-black hair fell across her face, while her once-stylish gown lay in shreds and tatters on her scratched and brutalized form. The noxious stench of the werewolves' matted fur befouled the air, mixing with the deplorable tang of spilled immortal blood. Her immortal mind struggled to cope with the enormity of the disaster. How had this atrocity come to pass? Where were the Death Dealers from Ordoghaz? Her own defenders lay in pieces around her, their sundered bodies torn apart by the werewolves' maddened claws and teeth. Even now she heard the loathsome beasts feasting on the lifeless flesh and bones of her council. Only the strength and resilience of an Elder had kept her alive so far, yet now she faced the very real possibility that her eternal existence was finally coming to an end. _No!_ She rebelled, unwilling to accept extinction after so many centuries of life and power. She laboriously lifted her head from the floor, ignoring the pain that racked her ravaged body. She mustered all her strength for one last desperate attempt at escape. _I must get away! I must survive! _A massive paw slammed into her skull, pinning her to the ground. Jagged claws dug into her scalp as a snarling werewolf bent low to growl menacingly in her ear. The beast's hot, putrid breath panted against her like a blast furnace, causing her stomach to turn. Placing her palms against the sticky red floor, Christine tried to overcome the pressure of the werewolf's heavy paw, but it was no use; she was too weak to resist. _This cannot be!_ her thoughts protested in vain. _I am an immortal, an Elder… I cannot die at the hands of an unclean animal! _Bootsteps rang on the floor of the train, drawing near her. Twisting her head, she raised her eyes enough to see a tall black man in a brown leather jacket walking calmly toward her. Unlike his lupine compatriots, this particular lycan had retained his human guise; his shaved skull was as hairless as the werewolves' were hirsute. Christine surmised that the newcomer was the alpha-male in charge of this blasphemous ambush. A gleaming metal case was clutched in the lycan's hands. Without comment, he placed the case down on the floor and flipped open the lid. He reached inside and removed a set of empty hypodermic syringes. The hollow needles at the tip of the syringes were at least three centimetres long. Christine's white, inhuman eyes widened in fear at the sight of the vicious apparatus. _Not my blood!_ she thought hysterically. _In the name of the Ancestor, don't take my blood! _Clay smirked. 

The squad car rocketed through a squalid, graffiti-ridden district of Budapest. The amber glow of the moonlight competed with the harsh white illumination of the street lamps. The police car's siren wailed relentlessly, clearing a path through the late-night traffic. Wherever they were going, they were heading there fast. In the back seat, separated from the two uniformed police officers by a steel-mesh partition, Spencer was getting sicker by the moment. Her forehead felt as if it were on fire, and her whole body throbbed unbearably. A cold, sweaty film glued her dirty T-shirt to her skin. Her mouth felt as dry as the Kalahari. _Jesus Christ, this just keeps getting worse. What the hell is wrong with me? _She wanted to think that the two cops were driving her straight to a hospital, but that didn't seem too likely; she hadn't gotten the impression that the men were overly concerned with her welfare. She wondered if they were really police officers at all. It was a crazy thought, but she figured that at this point, she was entitled to be a little paranoid. A drop of blood splattered on the knee of her muddy pants, and she raised a hand to her upper lip. Her fingers came away red and sticky. _Shit._ Now her nose was bleeding. Spencer stared out the rolled-up windows of the squad car, watching morosely as the brightly lighted sidewalks and buildings zipped by. They were heading northeast, it appeared, following the route of the city's oldest subway line, built more than a hundred years ago. Right now the car was passing through the busy red-light district around Matyas Square. Spencer saw throngs of local hookers already plying their trade beneath the street lamps, heedless of the police car zooming past their ranks. Although illegal, prostitution was more or less tolerated in some of the city's less respectable neighbourhoods. Spencer's defeated gaze drifted upward to the cloudy night sky. Suddenly, before she knew what was happening, the full moon slid from behind a bank of angry storm clouds. The glowing white disk provoked an immediate response. Spencer's blue eyes dilated, shrinking down to tiny black pinpricks. Her heart pounded so loudly that her ears were filled with what sounded like the unchecked turbulence of a never-ending hurricane. Her guts twisted inside her, extracting a tortured moan from her cracked and bleeding lips. Her stomach felt as if it were being turned inside out.

Up front, the two cops traded a look before glancing back at their anguished prisoner. Concern flickered over their surly faces, as if they were afraid Spencer was going to throw up all over the back seat. "Hey, Taylor," one of the cops said. He was the longhaired one who was riding shotgun. "Maybe we should pull over and dose her?" The driver peered at Spencer via the rear-view mirror. "Nah," he muttered to his partner, whose name Spencer had gathered was Pierce. "She'll be all right." Taylor spoke directly to Spencer. "Come on, man, hang tough." He turned his eyes back toward the road. " We're almost there."

_Almost where?_ Spencer wondered, but all that escaped her lips was another queasy moan. Every muscle in her body spasmed beyond her control. The pounding in her ears increased exponentially. Her vision wavered, the colour fading from her sight as the world turned into a gray, monochromatic blur. At the same time, her sense of smell heightened intensely, so that the rancid filth of the streets outside overwhelmed her. She choked on the sickening stench and clutched at her stomach. _Oh my god,_ she thought, grimacing. _How can anyone feel this bad and not be dying? _"Yeah, I know," Taylor said, responding to Spencer's groans. He looked back at Spencer through the sturdy metal grate. Spencer thought she heard a hint of sympathy in the driver's gruff voice. "First time's a bitch, hurts like hell. But after a while, you'll be able to control it, change whenever you want. Moon won't make a shit bit of difference." _Change?_ The word somehow penetrated her throbbing brain. Was that what this was, the first stage of her transformation into a bona fide werewolf? 

_No!_ Spencer thought in horror, never mind the convulsions racking her aching body. _It can't be true. It's not possible! _Unable to speak, she groaned even louder. Taylor shook his head in disgust, then turned up the radio. Blaring gypsy rock filled the squad car. A violent spasm rocked Spencer from head to toe. Her back arched in agony, as though she were undergoing a jolt of electroshock therapy. She bit down hard on her lower lip, missing her tongue by only a fraction of an inch. Her heart pounded like a war drum beneath her breast, even as the cartilage around it began to crackle and crunch. Abused tendons twisted and snaked, causing blood-wet bones to shift position painfully. Her entire skeletal structure started to reshape itself. Horrified, Spencer pulled up her T-shirt and watched, mesmerized despite her torment, as her ribs snapped and cracked before her eyes, cascading like piano keys beneath her palpitating skin. _Holy fuck!_ she thought. In eight-plus years of medical training, including several grisly stints in the casualty ward, she had never witnessed anything so astounding or grotesque. Human tissue was not supposed to act like this, dammit! A wave of dizziness came over her. Spencer clutched at the edge of the seat like a drunk teenager with a humongous case of the bed-spins. She held on for dear life as the hideous metamorphosis accelerated its pace. Pulsing blue-black veins traversed the whites of her eyes, spreading like tropical vines until Spencer's sensitive blue orbs took on an unnatural cobalt hue. Wild patterns of mottled splotches bloomed across her face and neck like broken capillaries, darkening her skin. Pale, bloodless flesh acquired a coarse gray tone. Spencer's gums smarted as, starting with her canines, her teeth grew sharper and more pronounced. Soon she could not even close her mouth because of the bear trap of serrated fangs jutting from her jaws. She needed a bigger mouth…Ordinary human fingernails grew at a preternatural rate, becoming hooked yellow claws that tore right into the fabric of the seat. Scuffed vinyl ripped apart loudly.

The tearing noises caught Pierce's attention. The longhaired cop twisted in his seat, turning to inspect Spencer through the steel-mesh divider. "Holy shit!" he blurted. "She's changing right here in the fucking car! Pull over! Pull over!" Caught in the throes of the transformation, Spencer kicked out wildly at the metal screen between her and the two supposed police officers. _Boom!_ The ringing metallic impact briefly overpowered the rock music blaring from the car radio. At the wheel, Taylor whirled around quickly, shocked to find himself face-to-face with Spencer, who was now well on her way to becoming a full-fledged werewolf. Glowing blue eyes peered out from beneath a sloping brow, while her nose had devolved into a bestial snout with flaring black nostrils. Jagged canines and incisors protruded from a snout-like, prognathous jaw. Foam dripped from her chin as she bared her newborn fangs and let loose with a ferocious roar. Caught by surprise, the driver lost control of the car, which swerved sharply to the right, making an unplanned turn into a grimy, cobblestoned alley, whose brick walls appeared to rush precipitously at the oncoming car.

Taylor slammed on the brakes, and the cop car screeched to a halt, throwing its passengers forward abruptly. Spencer's thrashing body thudded against the metal divider, denting the thick steel grating. Unfazed by the vehicle's sudden stop, the berserk American tried to smash her way out of the squad car. She kicked savagely at one of the side windows, and a spider web of cracks fractured the glass. One more good kick, and the window was history. Panicked, Pierce and Taylor leaped out of the car. "Get the kit!" Taylor yelled at his partner, while he hurried to subdue their unruly prisoner. "Pronto!" Standing outside the car, Pierce bent over the passenger seat and hurriedly rummaged through the glove compartment. He tugged out an unmarked nylon case and unzipped its seal. Inside were several fully loaded syringes. Pierce grabbed one and slid the tip between his teeth before biting down on the protective cap. With a twist of his head, he wrenched the cap from the needle, then spit it out onto the dirty floor of the alley. Meanwhile, Taylor yanked open the back door of the squad car and grabbed Spencer's arms and legs. Using his full weight, he struggled to hold the half-transformed human down. Spencer had not yet achieved the mass and dimensions of a full werewolf; otherwise the grunting cop would not have stood a chance, not without shedding his own mortal semblance. "Do it!" he bellowed impatiently at Pierce. "Stick her! Stick her!"

The shouted commands meant nothing to Spencer, whose intellect had all but vanished beneath a tidal wave of primal rage and abandon. All she cared about now was breaking free from the suffocating confines of the squad car. She could smell the anxiety of the two frantic policemen, and the provocative scent only served to madden her further. Fighting back, she seized Taylor by the jaw, then viciously slammed the cop's head against the metal door frame. _Thwack!_ Taylor staggered backward, clutching his battered skull. Momentarily stunned, the red-haired policeman dropped to his knees outside the car. Purple rage darkened his grimacing countenance as he gnashed his teeth and glared murderously at the uncooperative prisoner inside the car. But before Spencer could take advantage of Taylor's momentary incapacitation, the second cop surged forward, syringe in hand. Spencer felt a sharp pain below her chin as Pierce stabbed the tip of the hypo into her neck. Pierce pushed the plunger home, and a sudden burning sensation spread through Spencer's jugular vein out to the rest of her body. She threw back her head and howled in agony. 


	25. Chapter 25

_**Chapter Twenty-five**_

Aiden nervously approached the Plexiglas barrier surrounding the recovery chamber. Through the transparent wall, he spied Raife standing expectantly, his silken robe drawn about his towering figure. The continuing infusions of fresh blood had obviously agreed with the Elder; Aiden was chagrined to see how much Raife's previously emaciated frame had fleshed out. T he Elder was looking more and more like his old self, which did not sit well with his designated regent. _How in blazes can I wrest control of the coven from such a being, even with Glen's help?_ Aiden railed inwardly at the sheer inequity of his situation. _Damn you, Ashley! Why couldn't you have left Raife in the earth where he belonged? _"I sent for Ashley, not you," Raife stated, in a voice not nearly so dry and raspy as before. Aiden bowed his head in genuflection. "She has defied your orders and fled the mansion, my lord." Fury flashed across Raife's gaunt, angular countenance. "Your incompetence is becoming most taxing."

"It's not my fault!" Aiden protested. "She's become crazed, obsessed!" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "She thinks I'm at the core of some ridiculous conspiracy."

"And here's my proof!" a defiant voice rang out. _By the gods, no!_ The blood drained from Aiden's face as Ashley strode past him, gripping a middle-aged lycan by the throat. Aiden thought he recognized the man as one of Glen's underlings. Ashley threw the lycan in front of Raife and roughly forced him to his knees. The prisoner was braised and bloody, his shabby garments riddled with gory bullet wounds. Aiden had no doubt that Ashley herself had inflicted the damage on this miserable specimen of the lycan breed. But why had she brought the creature here? What sort of proof was she talking about? 

D-shaped steel anchors snapped out of the floor. Heavy iron chains rasped across the polished stone tiles. Adamantine shackles clanged shut, and Singe found himself on his hands and knees, cuffed and shackled, like a terrified peasant grovelling for mercy before his king. His red-streaked eyes still held a glint of rebellion. _You can subdue my body but not my mind,_ he thought fiercely. _Glen_ is _my true liege and patron, not any bloodsucking parasite! _The refrigerated crypt was uncomfortably cold. Singe shivered within his shackles, while his misused body ached from dozens of untreated wounds and injuries. Even though Ashley had removed several bullets from Singe back at the safe house, the better to keep her prisoner alive, he could still feel the remaining silver slowly infiltrating his veins and arteries, poisoning him by degrees. Peering upward furtively, he took stock of his dire circumstances. He was trapped in the crypt with no fewer than three powerful vampires, each of them regarding him without mercy. The Elder behind the clear plastic barrier was obviously Raife; Glen had informed Singe via cell phone of the Elder's unexpected resurrection, which had complicated their plans to no small degree. Despite his defiant attitude, the Austrian lycanthrope could not help feeling uneasy in the presence of such a primordial and puissant entity. From his research, he knew only too well of the preternatural capabilities of this immortal; Raife was, at most, only one or two steps removed from the very source of the vampire bloodline, which made him dangerous indeed.

The other male vampire disturbed him less. Singe recognized Aiden from the scheming regent's covert meetings with Glen. At the moment, Aiden looked distinctly uneasy. Singe could see in the vampire's eyes that Aiden desperately wanted to flee the crypt yet felt compelled to stay and try to bluff it out. _I can't blame him for being nervous,_ Singe thought, enjoying the arrogant vampire's discomfort. _Not with the secrets he has to hide. _And then, of course, there was Ashley…

"Tell them!" she commanded him harshly. "I want you to tell them _exactly _what you told me." Singe hesitated, reluctant to sacrifice his usefulness by immediately divulging all he knew. Perhaps there was some way to play these vampires against each other? But Ashley gave him no time to consider his options. Grabbing his arm, she jabbed her fingers into an open bullet wound in his shoulder. "Ahhhh!" he yelped shrilly. The excruciating pain almost made him pass out. "All right! All right!" There was no way he could resist this torture for long; it seemed he had no choice but to tell the bloodsuckers everything. Ashley loosened her grip but did not let go of his arm. She kept her fingers in the wound, as a tactile reminder of what Singe had in store should the injured lycan defy her again. Gasping from the traumatic shock to his system, Singe had to take a deep breath before speaking. "For years," he began, "we've been trying to combine the bloodlines…" 

Doped up and groggy, Spencer was only half aware of being dragged down a dank, murky tunnel somewhere beneath the city. A subway train thundered by several feet overhead, rattling the crumbling brick catacombs. If she'd been more alert and clear-headed, Spencer might have worried about getting buried alive. Her wrists were handcuffed tightly behind her back, while a thick piece of nylon webbing was wrapped around the lower half of her face, gagging her. On the brighter side, whatever she'd been dosed with had apparently reversed, at least for now, the grotesque metamorphosis brought on by the moonlight. She was fully human once more. _Do I need a prescription for that stuff,_ she wondered fuzzily, _or can I get it over the counter? _The alleged cops—Pierce and Taylor—said nothing as they hauled Spencer through a maze of subterranean corridors, merely grunting in exertion as they each held onto their prisoner by one arm. Spencer dimly glimpsed, out of the corners of her eyes, other brutish figures going about their business in this stygian underworld. Shadowy men and women, their eyes and teeth gleaming vibrantly in the dark, prowled through the tunnels, sometimes gnawing on disturbingly human-looking bones. A few of the women clasped nursing infants to their exposed breasts, but the misshapen babies struck Spencer as more canine than hominid. Feral children chased one another past their elders, yipping and squealing like overexcited pups, while here and there throughout the twisting labyrinth, Spencer occasionally glimpsed wild-eyed men and women copulating openly. Their bestial pants and moans added to the barbaric ambience of the catacombs as the frenzied lovers mounted each other with abandon, clawing and nipping at their mates' quivering flesh. The musky atmosphere was redolent of sweat and fur and filth. Spencer's eyes blinked blurrily in their sockets as she gradually shook off the narcosis clouding her mind, becoming more and more aware of her bizarre surroundings. The stench of the tunnels reached even through the nylon gag over her mouth. _Where am I,_ she wondered, frightened and disoriented, _and what the hell am I doing here?_

"…trying to combine the bloodlines," Singe continued, his memory taking him back to his cramped, cluttered laboratory under the city. He remembered placing a drop of lycan blood on a slide, then peering at the sample through the lenses of a powerful microscope. Then he'd added another drop of blood, this time from a plastic dropper labeled "Vampire and lycan." Through the microscope, he could discern the physical characteristics that distinguished vampire blood cells from lycan. Both species briefly coexisted within a minute sea of plasma. Then, just as it always did, an instant reaction occurred: the opposing blood cells turned on each other, consuming the enemy haemoglobin in a pyrrhic orgy of mutual destruction until not a single viable cell remained. "…and for years we failed," Singe confessed. "It was useless. Even at a cellular level, our two species seemed destined to annihilate each other." He paused in somber contemplation of innumerable failed experiments, until a painful twist of Ashley's fingers prompted him to continue. "That is, until we found Spencer." 

A complicated genealogical chart, spanning several generations, was posted to the wall of the subway station, which appeared to have been converted into some sort of improvised laboratory or infirmary. A banner printed along the top of the chart read "Carlin Family Tree". Spencer stared in confusion at the yellowed chart even as Pierce and Taylor strapped her to a swivelling examination table. Taking no chances on Spencer escaping, the men crisscrossed Spencer's body with heavy-duty strips of nylon webbing, similar to the sturdy tape stretched tightly over her mouth. Spencer's wrists were cuffed behind the cold metal table, so that her arms were bent at very uncomfortable angles. _This looks bad,_ Spencer thought. So which side were her captors on, the vampires or the werewolves? Judging from the animalistic behaviour he had glimpsed on his way here, Spencer guessed the latter. _Werewolves,_ she marvelled bleakly, having passed beyond disbelief. Her near transformation back in the squad car had wrung the last drops of scepticism from her mind. _I've been captured by werewolves. _And she was one of them, sort of. _Shit,_ she thought wryly, finding a trace of dark humour in her outré situation. _Eight years of schooling, a mountain of debt, and now I'm doomed to become a werewolf._ She shook her aching head in disbelief. _ Un-fucking-believable. _The two lycans, as Ashley called them, swung the table upward, elevating Spencer's head, so that she found herself directly facing the elaborate family tree. Many of the names on the chart had an inky black line running through them, as though they had been stricken from the list for some reason. Her baffled gaze dropped quickly to the very bottom of the chart—where an extremely familiar name was circled in red. 

"A very special specimen," Singe continued, his shoulder still throbbing where Ashley had cruelly dug her fingers into the wound. "A direct descendant of Alexander Carlin, a Hungarian warlord who came to power during the early seasons of the fifth century… just in time to watch a plague ravage his village." The lycan captive kept one eye on Aiden as he spoke, curious to observe the effect of his words on the double-dealing vampire regent. Aiden was figuratively sweating bullets, no doubt terrified that Singe would implicate him in the conspiracy. Singe caught the fearful vampire shooting a nervous look at the exit. _As well he should,_ the lycan thought. "Carlin alone survived the plague. His body was somehow able to mutate the disease, mould it to his benefit. He became the first true immortal." Singe grimaced in pain, acutely aware that his own prospects for eternal life were diminishing by the second. "And years later, he fathered at least two children who inherited the same trait." Behind the transparent barrier, Raife nodded impatiently. "The three sons of the Carlin Clan," he observed with a tone of wry amusement. "One bitten by bat, one by wolf, one to walk the lonely road of mortality as an ordinary human." The Elder snorted scornfully. "A ridiculous legend, nothing more."

"That may be," Singe conceded, "but our two species unquestionably have a common ancestor… and the mutation of the original virus is directly linked to the bloodline of Alexander Carlin." Seated upon his throne, Raife motioned toward the floor of the crypt, where a polished bronze hatch was emblazoned with an ornate letter A. "An heir to Carlin lies there, not three feet from you." Singe knew Raife was referring to the undead Elder known as Arthur. "Yes," he replied, "but he is already a vampire. We need a pure source, untainted. An exact duplicate of the original mutated virus which we learned was hidden away in the genetic code of Alexander Carlin' human descendants."

He remembered that glorious moment, when Spencer's blood had tested positive back in his lab, before the jubilant eyes of both Singe and Glen. He quickly had confirmed the results by placing a small sample of Spencer's blood on a slide, then mixing it with an equal quantity of preserved vampire blood. Through the microscope, he had watched intently as the vampire blood cells swiftly bonded with Spencer's mortal haemoglobin, producing unique two-celled platelets. The entire process had taken place in seconds, astonishing Singe with its speed. But that was not the end of the experiment. Singe immediately had introduced a drop of lycan blood to the sample. Just as he had always envisioned, the double platelets bonded with the lycan cells, yielding the desired product: a singular-looking triple-celled platelet. Super blood, in other words, melding the best characteristics of all three species. "The Carlin strain allows for a perfect union," he explained to the attentive vampires. Raife's ancient face contorted in disgust. "There can be no such union," he declared emphatically, "and to speak so is heresy." Singe lifted his head as much as his shackles allowed, looking Raife in the eye rebelliously. "We'll see about that," he chortled, "once Glen has inject—"

"Glen is dead," the Elder interrupted, cutting Singe off. A crafty smirk crossed Singe's face. "According to whom?" Ashley's tormenting fingers withdrew from Singe's arm as she whirled around to confront Aiden. To her surprise, if not the lycan scientist's, the nefarious regent had vanished. The female vampire clenched her fists in frustration, taking Aiden's escape as the ultimate admission of guilt. "I knew it!" 


	26. Chapter 26

_**Chapter Twenty-six**_

Aiden raced up the stairs from the crypt, fearful of Raife's wrath. His face was drawn and slick with perspiration. Paranoid imaginings filled his brain. Once that loose-lipped lycan revealed that Glen was still alive, that Aiden had not truly killed the illustrious lycan commander six centuries ago, there would be no safety for Aiden at Ordoghaz or beyond. Once again, it was all Ashley's fault. _God damn that ungrateful witch!_ Aiden thought furiously. If only she had accepted his generous offer to rule at his side, none of these catastrophes would have occurred. _And all because she chose a mangy, flea-bitten lycan over me! _He barged breathlessly into the grand salon. As usual, the opulent chamber was packed with stylish undead socialites. In anticipation of Christine's overdue arrival, the languid sophisticates were wearing their finest evening attire. Expensively tasteful jewellery sparkled upon the throats and ears of the sleek vampire women, while their gentlemen companions sported medals and decorations acquired over centuries of faithful service to the coven and its Elders. The muted babel of numerous animated conversations was accompanied by the delicate melody of Bartok's String Quartet No. 1 playing softly in the background. Goblets of cloned blood were refilled dutifully by a discreet complement of serving girls bearing crystal pitchers of warm crimson plasma.

Ordinarily, Aiden would have been quite at home in this milieu, but now he eyed the chattering immortals with fear and suspicion. _Are they whispering about me?_ he fretted. _Have I already fallen out of favour with my own kind, thanks to Ashley and her perfidy?_ Wringing his hands nervously, he noticed Christine's envoy, Dmitri, standing vigilantly by the window that looked out upon the mansion's front yard. An impatient frown on his bony features, the ageless diplomat alternated between glancing at his gilded pocket watch and peering anxiously through the heavy velvet drapes at the driveway outside. No doubt, he was wondering what had become of his exalted mistress. How long would it be before he blamed Aiden for Christine's nonarrival? Aiden looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with the worried envoy. After all, he could hardly explain to Dmitri that Christine had been met at the train station by a pack of ravening werewolves—especially since Aiden's original plans for a coup d'état were rapidly going down in flames. _This should have been my moment of glory,_ he thought rancorously, _boldly taking charge of the vampire nation at the height of a historic crisis. _Instead, it had become his Waterloo.

His eyes searched the crowded salon, looking for a minion he could rely on. Soren and his men, alas, had not returned from their mission in the city, leaving Aiden woefully short of allies. At first, he saw nothing but feckless libertines and voluptuaries, who would surely turn on him once his collusion with Glen was exposed. Then, to his relief, he spotted Madison, serving drinks at the far end of the salon. The lissom servant girl, whom Aiden had last seen naked in his sumptuous boudoir, once again wore a sequined black maid's outfit. Her ivory skin was notably paler than usual, suggesting that she had not yet recovered from Aiden's voracious attentions. _Of course,_ he thought, recalling the girl's lovesick devotion. She was no Soren, to be sure, but then again, beggars couldn't be choosers. Weaving hurriedly through the crush of undead bodies, he came up behind Madison and possessively grabbed her arm. The petite vampiress started, almost spilling a flagon of blood, then gazed up at Aiden with wide brown eyes. He bent toward her, the better to whisper softly in her ear. 

In the frigid atmosphere of the recovery chamber, Ashley finished disconnecting the IV tubing from Raife's arms, back, and chest. The Elder rose from his chair with obvious difficulty; it was clear that he had not yet regained his full strength. Fossilized bones creaked like rusty hinges. "I can assure you, my child," he stated solemnly, "Aiden will pay with his life." Ashley was more concerned with Spencer's life at the moment but shrewdly held her tongue. In the aftermath of Aiden's guilty flight from the crypt, Raife appeared to have forgotten her own recent transgressions. She wisely judged that now was not the time to remind the Elder of her determined efforts to keep Spencer out of the hands of the lycans. _Later, after Aiden and Glen are dealt with, I can convince him that Spencer is blameless in this affair. _By contrast, her lycan prisoner—who apparently went by the name of Singe—felt free to speak his mind. Chained to the floor on the other side of the Plexiglas divider, he grinned maliciously at his vampire captors. "Soon this house will lie in ruins," he prophesied with a chuckle. "Not before you," Ashley stated darkly, as Raife shot her a meaningful look. Alert to his wishes, she promptly exited the recovery chamber and seized Singe by the throat. Her face a mask of implacable hatred, she throttled the imprisoned lycan, fully prepared to choke the life from his worthless body. "No, wait!" Singe croaked, barely able to speak. His bulging red eyes appealed frantically to Raife. "You and you alone will know the truth of this!" _What truth?_ Ashley wondered. She glanced back at Raife, who raised his hand in reply. She obediently loosened her grip on the lycan's scrawny neck.

Singe coughed and gasped, sucking the cool air of the crypt into his famished lungs, before commencing to explain: "If Glen is able to get his hands on the blood of an Elder, such as Christine or yourself, Spencer's blood will allow him to absorb the vampire blood without harm, joining it to his own lycanthropic haemoglobin." Raife reacted with horror and revulsion. "Abomination," he whispered hoarsely. The colour drained from his already ashen features. Ashley felt lost. Raife seemed to know what the lycan scientist was implying, but her own comprehension was lagging a few steps behind. _Dammit, _she thought. _I'm a warrior, not a biologist. _"Glen will become the first of a new order of being," Singe lectured, his Austrian accent torturing the Hungarian language. Despite his grievous injuries and the silver slowly poisoning his body, his eyes held a gleam of scientific enthusiasm as he warmed to his subject. "Half vampire, half lycan, but stronger than both." His gaze switched from Raife to Ashley. "The thing he's feared for centuries. A new breed." He nodded in Raife's direction. "Look at him."Ashley turned her head toward Raife. To her consternation, the kingly Elder looked just as worried as Singe foretold. Raife's eerie blue vampire eyes stared bleakly into space as though his very worst fears had been realized. _Is that what this is all about?_ she wondered, a chill running down her spine. _Glen's desire to become some sort of hybrid monster? _And Spencer's blood was the key. 

Flashlight beams raked the interior of the antique dining car, exposing a scene of ghastly carnage. Blood spattered the floor, walls, windows, and ceiling, while the ravaged bodies of Christine and her entourage were strewn about like scraps from a cannibalistic feast. High-ranking members of the New World coven and Council had been torn apart and disembowelled, their mutilated remains testifying to the ferocity of their attackers' unleashed claws and teeth. Mason, a veteran Death Dealer loyal to Sean, had never seen anything like it. Although he had witnessed much violence during the long campaign against the lycans, the sheer ghastly enormity of the massacre shook him deeply. He glanced at the faces of the other two Death Dealers present and saw that they looked just as disturbed by what they had discovered aboard the violated train. The very air was thick with the smell of raw meat and blood. Vampire blood, spilled and wasted. His appalled gaze turned reluctantly back to the ice-cold body at his feet. The Lady Christine, oldest and most powerful of all female vampires, lay lifeless upon the floor of her private train, her bone-white body completely drained of blood. An expression of utter horror was etched upon her face. Mason looked away. He decided that he had seen enough. Extracting a cell phone from his long black trench coat, he speed-dialled the mansion. "Mason here," he said curtly into the phone. "I need to speak with Sean." 

The heavy oak doors of the grand salon burst open. The booming noise silenced both conversation and Bartok, throwing a startled hush over the reception. The throng of elegantly tailored vampires parted like the Red Sea as Sean marched into the chamber, flanked by a cadre of fully armed Death Dealers. Cowering at the back of the crowded chamber, Aiden knew at once for whom Sean had come. Judging from the smouldering fury in Sean's dark eyes, Aiden knew he could expect no mercy at the hands of his former compatriots. _They know, _he thought with a certainty. His immortal heart pounded like the hooves of a runaway horse. _They know everything! _He receded into the shadows as Sean and his soldiers swept through the crowd, searching for the disgraced regent. Fortune favoured Aiden as the venerable Dmitri demanded an immediate explanation for the Death Dealers' violent intrusion. The heated altercation gave Aiden the distraction he needed to slink surreptitiously through the crowd ahead of Sean's advancing search party. An open doorway presented itself enticingly, and Aiden scurried out of the salon with all deliberate speed. He bolted madly for the front door of the mansion, hoping with all his heart that the ride he had summoned would be there to meet him. _I can't let Sean and his storm troopers catch up with me! _he thought cowardly, knowing that Raife would have him tortured for all eternity for his crimes against the coven. _I must get away! _

No guards had been placed at the foyer, so Aiden ran unobstructed out of the mansion into the courtyard outside. His heart leaped in jubilation as a jet-black limousine came squealing to a stop right in front of the mansion's arched stone entrance. Soren sprang out of the limo and quickly opened the door, allowing Aiden to slide briskly into the back seat. _Thank the gods,_ Aiden thought. Sweaty and out of breath, he sank back against the charcoal leather cushions, exhausted by the strain of his narrow escape. Soren circled the limo and jumped in beside him, a loaded P7 pistol in his grip; the murderous janissary was ready to defend his master from whoever came after them. Knowing that the sooner he put Ordoghaz behind him, the better, Aiden raised his hand to signal to the driver to depart. He was reaching for the door handle to pull it shut when a strident cry came from the front entrance of the mansion. 

"My lord! Wait!" Madison called out urgently to Aiden as she came dashing out the door toward the limo. A worn leather jacket had been thrown over her filmy black frock, but the chill of the evening still invaded her bones. There had been no time to dress more warmly, though, not if she wanted to join Aiden in his daring escape from Ordoghaz. _I'm coming, my love!_ she thought as her high heels clicked rapidly against the front steps. She didn't know the particulars of the scandal that had obviously overtaken Aiden, nor did she much care. It was enough that he had turned to her in his hour of greatest need. _He chose me… Madison!_ She even forgave him for his abrupt departure from the boudoir earlier; it was clear now that nothing less than a crisis of the utmost magnitude had torn him from her fervent embrace. _ This is my moment,_ she exulted. At last, she had proven that she was the only vampiress who would always be there for him. Her imagination soared ahead of her eager feet, picturing herself and Aiden winging away to some exotic foreign love nest where the exiled regent finally would reward her for her steadfast devotion, bestowing the plenteous bounty of his eternal affection upon her and her alone. She speculated excitedly about where their daring flight might take them. London? Paris? The Riviera? Already halfway around the world in her Technicolor fantasies, she arrived breathlessly at the open door of the waiting limousine. Seated in the back, Aiden looked up at her expectantly. His probing brown eyes inquired whether she had done exactly as he had instructed. Her triumphant face beaming in reply, Madison reached beneath her jacket and pulled out the weapon she had just stolen from Sean's dojo in the loft. Exactly as Aiden had described it, the prototype gun with its silver nitrate cartridges was an extremely intimidating piece of ordnance. Madison felt like a Death Dealer just holding the massive gun. Aiden smiled and snatched the pistol from her hand. Madison willingly relinquished the weapon, then moved to slide into the limo beside him. She saw, with a twinge of regret, that Soren was lodged in the back of the car as well. _Damn!_ she thought. _Three's a crowd…_

Before she could enter the limo, however, Aiden slammed the door shut in her face. Madison stood frozen in shock, her jaw dropping toward the pavement as the deluxe limousine pulled away from her and took off toward the front gate. Aiden did not even give her so much as a backward glance before zooming away without her. Madison watched the limo's taillights disappear into the night. She stood mutely at the edge of the driveway, stunned by the sheer enormity of Aiden's betrayal. _That's it!_ she thought indignantly, fed up beyond all measure. She stamped her foot on the chiselled curb, nearly breaking the heel. _I'm through with Aiden forever. _She wondered if Raife liked brunettes… 

Ashley unplugged the last of the IV tubing. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the end of its copper nozzle. She took Raife by the arm, intending to help him rise from his chair, but he shrugged off her assistance. "I can manage," he said gravely. For the first time since his resurrection, Raife emerged from the claustrophobic confines of the recovery chamber. He stepped across the spacious crypt, pausing for a moment next to the bronze hatches that marked the individual tombs of the Elders. Ashley wondered if he still planned to revive Arthur according to schedule, and it dawned on her that Christine must be due at the mansion at any moment, if she had not arrived already. Hurried footsteps approached the crypt by way of the security booth. For a moment, Ashley thought that Aiden had returned, and she was both amazed and affronted by his audacity. _How dare he show his face before Raife again,_ she fumed, _after having deceived us all for years?_ The slayer of Glen, indeed! But instead of the disgraced regent, it was Sean who came rushing into the crypt.

The veteran Death Dealer came to an abrupt halt as he laid eyes on Raife. He bowed deeply before the Elder. "My lord," he announced, "the Council members have been assassinated!" Ashley could not believe her ears. The entire Council? She glanced quickly at Raife and saw that the all-powerful Elder was just as horrified as she. Freshly infused blood drained from his features. "What of Christine?" he asked sombrely. Sean stared at the floor, unable to meet his master's eyes, but he did not shrink from delivering the awful truth. "They bled her dry." Horror gave way to anger on Raife's regal countenance. His hollow cheeks flushed darkly red. Ashley had never seen him so incensed, not even when he had condemned her to judgment several hours ago. For herself, Ashley was rendered speechless by Sean's catastrophic news. As much as she had despised Aiden, she had never thought him capable of conspiring in such a crime, yet she had no doubt that the vanished regent was deeply involved in the plot that had left Christine and the Council dead. _This was a blatant attempt,_ she realized, _to seize control of the entire vampire nation!_

Chained to the floor not far away, Singe smiled with malicious glee. "It has already begun," he crowed. Raife moved with lightning speed, so quickly that Ashley barely realized he had lunged before the outraged Elder had crushed Singe's skull with a single blow. The prostrate lycan dropped lifelessly onto the cold stone floor, his wizened face pulped beyond recognition. Ashley was not even tempted by his blood. Turning away from the ignoble carcass at his feet, Raife approached Ashley and gently lifted her chin. "I am sorry I doubted you, my child," he said gravely. "Fear not, absolution will be yours…" Ashley's heart lifted, grateful and relieved that her sire had not forsaken her. _I knew he would see the truth in time!_"…the moment you kill the descendant of Carlin, this Spencer." _Kill Spencer?_ Ashley stepped backward involuntarily, her rising spirits crashing downward. How could Raife expect her to kill Spencer in cold blood? It wasn't Spencer's fault that her DNA was so dangerous. She was an innocent, albeit one contaminated by the lycan infection. _There must be some other way! _Her face froze as she struggled to conceal her shocked reaction to Raife's pronouncement. But Raife had turned away from her. He briskly exited the crypt, followed closely by Sean. Ashley lingered behind, wrestling with her turbulent emotions. A pool of bright red blood poured from Singe's shattered skull, spreading across the marble floor of the lonesome crypt. The scarlet tide lapped at the toes of Ashley's boots, threatening to surround her. _Blood,_ she thought numbly. _Lycan blood. Just like Spencer's._


	27. Chapter 27

_**Chapter Twenty-seven**_

Spencer opened her bleary eyes, finding herself back in the converted subway station. _I must have dropped off again,_ she realized, fighting to keep her heavy eyelids from descending once more. She tried to lift her head, only to have it fall backward against the hard steel examination table. A voice spoke from the shadows of the ramshackle infirmary, just out of sight. "You were given an enzyme to stop the Change. It will take some time for the grogginess to dissipate." Spencer recognized the voice of the bearded stranger who had bitten her in the elevator two nights ago. _You!_ Spencer thought vengefully. _You're the one who did this to me, turned me into… whatever I'm becoming. _If she were free, she would have leaped from the table and attacked the voice with her bare hands. But her wrists were still cuffed together behind the table, and heavy strips of nylon webbing immobilized the rest of her body, as though she were an Egyptian mummy being prepared for burial and not a nascent lycanthrope.

One of the two lycan cops, whose uniforms were probably as bogus as their human appearance, stepped forward. It was the long-haired one, Pierce, who had stabbed Spencer with a hypo back in the squad car, when the young American's abortive transformation caused her to go berserk. Pierce flaunted an empty glass syringe, and his sadistic smirk made it clear he was looking forward to an encore. He didn't bother to prep or disinfect the injection site; he just brutally jabbed the needle into Spencer's arm. The captured American winced in pain, then lost her temper completely. _Screw this!_ she thought furiously. _I'm tired of everybody treating me like an animal! _She writhed helplessly against her bonds, but her frantic efforts snapped the needle off at its base. The syringe crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. An impatient snarl came from the stranger in the shadows. Pierce didn't like being embarrassed in front of the mysterious bearded man. Growling with fury, he viciously backhanded Spencer, hitting her so hard that she almost blacked out. Spencer's head lolled to one side, and she blinked repeatedly, unable to focus. The inside of her skull was ringing like cathedral chimes.

"That's enough!" the unseen stranger barked. Even dazed, Spencer heard the nameless man straining to contain his vexation. His voice was stern but firmly under control. "Just… go and see what's keeping Clay, will you?" Pierce grudgingly backed away from Spencer. His surly eyes shot Spencer one last dirty look before he shuffled out of the infirmary. Spencer groaned in misery as soon as the phony policeman appeared safely out of earshot. She shook her head, trying to clear the shock waves from her mind. The enigmatic stranger stepped quietly from the shadows. "I really must apologize. Pierce is in desperate need of a lesson in manners." As Spencer's vision came back into focus, she saw that the speaker was indeed the bearded stranger from the night of the subway massacre—when this whole craziness started. Spencer recognized the man's deceptively genteel features, as well as the crest-shaped pendant dangling around his neck. The stranger seemed none the worse for being hit by Ashley's speeding Jaguar. _Who the hell are you?_ Spencer thought, glaring at the soft-spoken man with a mixture of hate and dread. _And what do you want with me? _"Speaking of manners," the man said casually, "where are mine?" He stepped nearer to the upraised examination table, close enough to bite Spencer again if he felt so inclined. Instead, he bent down and removed Spencer's gag. "Forgive me. I'm Glen." The name meant nothing to Spencer. "I need to go," she pleaded, struggling against her bonds. "I need to get back." Glen sighed and shook his head. "There is no going back, Spencer. There's no going anywhere." He spoke slowly and carefully, as though instructing a slow-witted child. "The vampires will kill you on sight, just for being what you are. One of us." He leaned even closer and looked Spencer dead in the eye. "You _are_ one of us." _No!_ Spencer thought instinctively. _I'm a human being, not a monster! _But in her heart, she knew that Glen was telling the truth, just as Ashley had been. _I can feel myself changing inside._

Jolted by Glen's ominous statements, Spencer failed to notice that the bearded lycan had produced a fresh syringe, until she suddenly felt the needle spearing her vein. She stared down in dismay as the cylindrical glass chamber filled with blood. "What are you doing?" she asked apprehensively. Glen kept his gaze on the syringe as he continued to draw Spencer's blood. "Bringing an end to this genocidal conflict."

"Your war has nothing to do with me," Spencer insisted. She didn't even know which side to root for, the werewolves or the vampires. Glen or Ashley? "My war?" Glen asked harshly, and Spencer sensed that she had hit a nerve. The bearded lycan tugged the syringe, now filled to capacity, from Spencer's arm. Blood streamed freely where the needle had pierced her skin; a Band-Aid apparently was not on the agenda. Glen's free hand gravitated to the gleaming pendant upon his chest, drawing Spencer's attention to the mysterious talisman. The sight of the pendant triggered a flood of bizarre, unaccountable memories. Her eyes rolled upward, exposing their whites, as another round of hallucinatory sounds and images engulfed her.

_H__er hand delicately swept along the edge of a gilded vanity table, tenderly exploring the combs, hairpins, and perfume bottles. Lifting her eyes, she gazed into the brass mirror above the vanity and found herself staring at her own reflection. But it wasn't her reflection, it was Glen's reflection. _

"Glen?" Spencer murmured weakly as she twitched spasmodically on the examination table. Now she understood, sort of. These had been _Glen's_ memories all along. 

A.D. 1402. _Glen and three of his lycan brothers made their way down a shadowy passage, on their way back to their den in the servants' quarters. Torches blazed from iron sconces mounted on the sooty stone walls. The sun had fallen outside, so they were no longer required to guard the castle from hostile humans. Their vampire masters once more could defend themselves. The clanking of heavy plate armour echoed down the corridor as a pair of Death Dealers advanced toward Glen. The fearsome vampire warriors marched in finely crafted suits of expensive Italian armour, quite unlike the antiquated leathers and chain mail worn by him and the other lycan sentries. Heraldic symbols were emblazoned on the vampires' steel breastplates, which easily could repel the wooden stakes or arrows of the superstitious mortals beyond the castle's walls .Behind the armoured Death Dealers, a procession of regal, pure-blooded_ nosferatu _strode down the hall. Their elegant garb, much finer than Glen's own simple garments, was trimmed with fur and embroidered with delicate gold thread. Gowns and cloaks of the choicest satins, silks, damasks, and brocades rustled as they approached, the hems of the vampire ladies' flowing gowns trailing behind them like silken shadows. Stepping aside to let the lordly party pass, Glen and his brothers lowered their gaze respectfully. Unlike his fellow servants, however, he could not resist sneaking a peek at the undead nobles as they glided past him. And there she was! Kyla, the beauteous vampire princess of his most ardent desires. Her raven hair tumbled down onto her shoulders like the fall of night, and a gilt circlet rested gently on her head. Azure eyes gazed from a snow-white face of surpassing loveliness. A shining, crest-shaped pendant dangled from a chain around her swanlike throat. The priceless ornament rested securely on the ivory slopes of her bosom, above an embroidered burgundy gown. She strolled beside Raife, the undisputed master of the castle. A brocade cloak of a metallic golden hue rested on his imperious shoulders, its upright collar rising stiffly behind his neck. An intricate silver medallion, far more elaborate than Kyla's pendant, adorned his chest, while his dark satin breeches were girded at the waist by an ornate golden belt whose polished buckle bore a design similar to that of the medallion. Two matching silver daggers were tucked into the belt. Glen's face lit up at the very sight of the princess. He was riveted, unable to take his eyes off her. Conscious of his gaze, she turned and locked eyes with him._ Caught! _He felt a tremor of apprehension, until a playful grin appeared on her radiant features. Emboldened by her response, he smiled back at her, provoking an even wider grin. Her emerald eyes sparkled flirtatiously. Alas, the buoyant exchange did not escape the notice of Raife. A scowl turned his thin lips downward, and his expression darkened, yet he said nothing… for now. _Time jumped ahead suddenly, breaking the seamless flow of the ancient memories. _Glen stared again into the gilded mirror, heedless of the silver beneath the polished glass. Kyla's reflection joined his as she slid up next to him, resting the soft curves of her body against his rougher form. They kissed, and she took his hand and gently pressed it to her belly. Beneath her satin gown, her belly swelled with the cherished life now quickening within her. Holding his breath in awe, Glen could feel the baby stirring inside his adoring princess, the new and precious life their shared love had brought into being. He smiled and kissed her again, feeling the passion rise once more. But before he could tell her again how much she meant to him, the door to her boudoir burst open. Raife stormed into the bedchamber, his face a livid mask of rage—_Another break in the memories, as time took a jarring leap forward. _The medieval crypt was cold and damp. Sputtering torches threw writhing shadows upon the mouldering stone walls. Rats scurried in the corners, alarmed by the sudden activity in the cavernous chamber. High above the floor, tucked away in a dark, umbrageous recess, a tinted black window admitted rays of filtered starlight into the fetid dungeon. Raife and his fellow Council members perched on craggy stone pillars, like a flock of evil gargoyles looking down in judgment upon the floor of the crypt. Their luxurious velvet robes contrasted sharply with the dismal surroundings. They muttered darkly among themselves as a trio of armoured Death Dealers dragged Glen into the center of the crypt. The scowling vampire warriors forced him to his knees. His body, already bruised and aching from the guards' rough treatment, was chained to the floor. The cold stones sent a chill through his bones, and he trembled despite himself. He was sore and hungry and thirsty, having been given neither food nor water since his capture. Despite this, he feared more for Kyla and her baby than for himself. A horrified gasp caught his ears, and he looked up to see Kyla only a few feet away, suspended above him in some diabolical torture device. Her once-pristine gown hung in tatters on her slender frame. Iron and leather restraints held her fast, stretched cruelly against her flesh. Her snowy vampire eyes were rimmed with red, and crimson tears ran in torrents down her smooth white cheeks. Glen could not bear to see her mistreated so. Snarling like a mad dog, he tugged uselessly against his heavy chains. Yet he and his princess were not the only prisoners in this forsaken place. To his dismay, he saw his fellow lycanthropes being herded into an iron cell by a superior force of sword-wielding Death Dealers. The confused servants yelped and whined piteously as the vampire soldiers locked them behind a swinging metal door. The iron bars of the cage were laced with silver alloy, the better to trap the distraught lycans inside. Glen's heart broke for his people. It was not just that they should be punished for his crime, if crime it was. His anger rose, supplanting any lingering fears for his own safety. Soren, Raife's brutal overseer, stepped forward, sporting a black beard he would eventually discard in the centuries to come. He uncoiled a long silver whip, its gleaming links exquisitely crafted in the semblance of human vertebrae. Glen braced himself for the blow he knew was coming, yet no preparation could steel him against the searing pain as the silver whip viciously lashed his naked back again and again. The sculpted vertebrae made ribbons of his hide, burning his skin even as they sliced through his defenceless flesh, paring it to the bone. The pain was unendurable…In her iron prison, Kyla flailed against her bonds and shouted desperately at Raife and his ghoulish comrades. "Nooo! Leave him be!" she cried out on Glen's behalf. "Stop it! Stop!" But the lashes kept coming. Behind him, over the thunderous cracks of the whip, his lycan brothers and sisters went berserk, enraged to see one of their own kind tortured. Though caged, they threw themselves against the silver-tainted bars, growling like the untamed beasts within them. Without the moon's liberating glow, they could not shed their human guises, yet they raged like creatures of the wild, rending their crude woolen garments and gnashing their teeth. Angry curses gave way to lupine howls and roars as the pack voiced their primeval wrath against their one-time masters. _We will never forget this night, _Glen vowed, even as the merciless whip shredded his flesh anew…_

In the lycan infirmary, Glen looked on with concern as Spencer Carlin spasmed in pain on the upright examination table. Her head snapped from side to side, and anguished groans erupted from her cracked and bleeding lips, as though she were being flayed alive by some invisible tormentor. _Whatever can be wrong with her?_ Glen wondered, not without a twinge of pity for the unlucky American. The enzyme he'd been injected with could not provoke this reaction. It was possible that these were the early throes of Spencer's first full metamorphosis, yet he rather doubted it. Glen had witnessed the rebirth of many a virgin werewolf, and these did not resemble the wrenching pangs of a lycanthropic transformation. Despite her obvious discomfort, Spencer's skin and bones remained distinctly human. _I wish Singe were here,_ Glen thought, wondering what had become of the old Austrian scientist, whom he had assigned to keep watch over the vampires' mansion. It had been several hours since he had heard from Singe and his contingent of lycan soldiers, and Spencer looked in need of expert medical treatment. In theory, Glen had extracted all the blood he needed from Spencer, but he preferred to keep the young American alive. Spencer was now a sister lycan after all. The youth twisted and groaned on the table, lost in some hellish nightmare Glen could not begin to envision. 

_Their vicarious blood lust satisfied at last, Raife and the Council members exited silently from the crypt. __ They pounced effortlessly from their granite perches, then wound their way through an arched stone entrance. Their velvet robes rustled like cobwebs as they departed, and a heavy oaken door slammed shut, trapping Glen inside the gloomy torture chamber. Bloodied and exhausted, he collapsed onto the floor, which was now wet and sticky with his blood._ Is this the end? _he wondered, praying that the torment was finally over. Perhaps Raife would be content with Glen's destruction and spare Kyla and the others. He could not imagine that even the haughty Elder could condemn the beautiful princess forever, let alone her unborn child. The scream of protesting metal reverberated nearby, echoing throughout the cavernous chamber._ What? _Lifting his head, Glen spied two grim-faced Death Dealers wrestling with a heavy iron wheel mounted against the wall. The corroded wheel did not want to move at first, but the combined strength of the two vampires finally proved enough to crank the wheel in a clockwise direction. As a result, time worn metal gears began to squeak and grind against each other. Panic flooded Glen's ashen face as he realized what the guards intended. Kyla also grasped what was transpiring. Her frightened eyes stared into his, terror-stricken. _Please, no, _he begged silently, his parched throat too dry to speak, but the relentless gears kept on grinding. Directly above Kyla's head, a massive wooden hatch slowly creaked open. A fiery sun was carved into the underside of the oaken hatch, with a grinning death's head at its center. Thunder boomed loudly outside the castle. Cold rain poured down through the open shaft, along with a deadly ray of misty sunlight. _No, not the sun! Not on her! _Glen lunged forward desperately, and the mighty chains snapped taut, holding him back. The iron shackles cut savagely into his flesh, yet he barely noticed the pain. He strained with all his might, working himself into a lather of blood and sweat, but there was not a damned thing he could do to save the woman he loved. He could do nothing but watch as the first blood-red lesions appeared, popping and snapping across Kyla's delicate white skin. The unsparing sunlight shined down upon his princess' vulnerable flesh, which began to melt and liquefy as though she were being bathed in acid."Noooo!" he screamed hoarsely, his raspy cry of despair joining hers in one final, excruciating moment of communion…_

Glen watched in spellbound fascination as a single tear coursed down Spencer's cheek. _Where is she now?_ the lycan commander wondered. _What is she experiencing?_ He felt an unsettling and inexplicable kinship with the tortured American. _There is more here than mere bodily pain. She grieves as though her heart were breaking. _His gaze remained fixed on Spencer's unseeing eyes, as the American suffered beneath the illusory slings and arrows of whatever unseen demons haunted her mind. 

_Glen shuddered uncontrollably on the floor of the medieval crypt, drained of tears and emotion. Several hours had passed, and the blood beneath him had long since dried. The killing sun had departed at last, and pallid starlight poured down through the open ceiling shaft__ .Kyla was dead. All that remained of his beloved princess was a lifeless gray statue of charred bone and ash. Her powdery arms were raised above her in a futile effort to fend off the fatal daylight. A look of anguished sorrow, for both herself and her unborn child, was baked upon the statue's agonized features. Only a single metallic glint added a touch of colour to the bleak gray figure: Kyla's crest-shaped pendant, still clasped around her carbonized throat. The heavy wooden doors slammed open, admitting a howling wind into the desolate chamber. The furious gusts tore at Kyla's crumbling remains, causing her to disintegrate before Glen's eyes. He sobbed violently as her ashes swirled past him like autumn leaves. Within seconds, not a trace of his beloved remained. Two Death Dealers entered, the larger of the pair bearing a huge, two-handed axe. A ponderous stone chopping block was slid across the floor, and Glen's head was forced urgently into the bloodstained grooves, which bore the doleful scent of many prior victims of the headman's axe. Kyla's death was not enough, he realized. Raife demanded his life as well. This came as no surprise. The stately Elder entered behind the executioners, garbed in somber hues of mourning. Long-faced and solemn, he made his way across the chamber to the now-empty torture device that had recently held the departed princess. Of necessity, his polished boots crunched on the minute bits of charred bone that were all that was left of the beauteous and loving Kyla. If the dry, crackling noises troubled him, his dour face bore no evidence of it. Ignoring Glen completely, he bent low and gravely fished the shining pendant from the ashes. His eyes watered briefly, and a look of genuine grief flashed across his face, but it passed quickly as his aristocratic countenance reassumed a cold, distant expression. Rising from Kyla's ashes, he turned toward Glen at last. Icy contempt and hatred smouldered in his eyes. His callous inhumanity inflamed Glen, and he matched Raife's baleful gaze with a red-hot look of his own. Glen's blood surged volcanically within his veins. "You bastard!" He pounced at Raife like the wolf he was, but unyielding chains jerked him back once more. The outraged Death Dealers fell upon him at once, bludgeoning his lacerated body with devastating kicks and blows. Fists and feet shod in forged metal plating crashed against him like a rain of meteors until his battered form dropped back onto the damp stone floor, panting and gasping. But though his body lay defeated, his unquenchable fury still burned like the eternal fires of hell. "I'll kill you," he croaked through broken and swollen lips. "I'll kill you, you bloodsucking devil!" Raife stepped forward and grabbed his hair. He savagely yanked Glen's head back so that he could stare into the lycan's pulped and bloody face. Raife's regal face wrinkled in disgust. "For you, death will come slowly. I can promise you that." A sadistic smile revealed his heinous intentions. "Forget the axe," he instructed his men. "Fetch me my knives." At this moment, above the open ceiling shaft, the full moon slid into view from behind a bank of billowing storm clouds. The invigorating rays of the celestial lunar orb, god and goddess to Glen and his clan, shined down upon him, and he felt the Change begin. His blood-streaked eyes dilated dramatically as the colour jaded from his vision, giving way to the blurry, black-and-white perspective of a wolf. Renewed strength flooded his weary sinews as his body gained size and weight in the space of a heartbeat. Coarse black fur sprouted from his hide, hiding the ugly welt marks on his back. His hearing and sense of smell heightened immeasurably, so that he could practically taste the alarm in Raife's blood as the Elder suddenly grasped his mistake. _You never should have let the moonlight find me, _Glen thought vindictively._ Now my power is at its peak! _The transformation took place in an instant, and it was as a complete werewolf that he lunged once more at his persecutor. This time, the iron chains snapped before his inhuman strength, and he leaped at Raife, his outstretched claws preceding him. With a single swipe of his shaggy arm, he snatched the gleaming pendant from Raife's grasp. Raife recoiled from the werewolf's claws, stumbling backward across the crypt. He bumped into the iron bars of the adjacent cell, provoking a ferocious roar from within. The bestial noise alerted him to danger, and he threw himself away from the cell only seconds before a hairy arm clawed at him through the rigid metal bars. He whirled around, stunned to discover that every one of the lycan prisoners had become a full-grown werewolf. The cramped cell was now packed with growling, snapping monsters, trying like hell to chew their way through the confining iron bars. The musky scent of a score of fur-covered werewolves filled the dank, unwholesome atmosphere of the torture chamber. While Raife blinked in surprise, the two Death Dealers charged at Glen from across the room. Broken chains dangled from his wrists like decorative streamers, and he spun about with preternatural speed, sending the heavy chains slicing through the air at the oncoming warriors. The chains smacked loudly against his enemies' midsections, shattering their ribs. An almost human smile distorted his wolfen snout. It felt good to be at the other end of the whip…Heated shouts came from outside the crypt. Glen moved to throw the heavy wooden doors shut, but he was too late. A squad of additional Death Dealers poured into the chamber, clutching silver-plated swords and pikes. "Get him!" Raife shouted to his soldiers. "Kill that treacherous cur!" There were too many of them. Even in wolfen form, Glen could not stand against so many foes, not while his lupine allies still struggled to free themselves from their hateful cell. His eyes searched frantically for an escape route, coming to rest upon a tinted-glass window recessed in a dark alcove more than twenty feet above the floor. Eureka! he thought gratefully. It was a long way up, but his powerful hind legs were sufficient to the task; exploding into motion, a single pounce landed him on the narrow stone ledge beneath the alcove. For a moment, he lingered on the limestone shelf, silhouetted against the darkly tinted glass. He looked back upon the ash-strewn site of Kyla's hideous demise, and he clutched her tiny pendant as if it was the most valuable treasure on earth. Then he turned his murderous gaze upon Raife himself, as the tyrannical Elder cowered behind his horde of vampire warriors._ Someday, _the werewolf's hate-filled eyes assured him,_ you will pay for what you have done to my princess and my people. _Crossbows laden with silver bolts aimed upward at Glen, and he realized he could tarry no longer. Swiftly turning his back on the dungeon below, he dived headfirst through the blackened window. Shards of broken glass, flashing darkly in the moonlight, exploded outward as he fell through the air toward the ground below. Mercifully, he saw that the oppressive dungeon was located directly beneath the castle's outer wall. The open forest beckoned before his eyes. Fragments of black glass rained down upon the rocky soil outside the fortress. Glen hit the ground on all fours, then sprang up on two legs, standing as a man did despite the hairy pelt covering his body. He howled triumphantly at the saviour moon even as angry cries and tumult erupted from behind the grim gray walls of the vampires' castle. Behind him, the sinister fortress loomed ominously amidst the craggy Carpathian Mountains; before him, an impenetrable forest of dense mountain pines held out the promise of safety and freedom. He loped full tilt toward the sheltering woods. The winter night was broken by the heated cries and pounding footsteps of a brigade of Death Dealers stampeding out through the castle's gate. The irate vampire warriors chased after the werewolf, hurling threats, curses, and unheeded commands at his fleeing back. Armour clanked loudly amid the towering pines, and silver crossbow bolts whistled through the air, coming to rest in the trunk of a bushy fir tree only inches from Glen's head. He ran from his determined pursuers as fast as aching hind legs could carry him. Clutching Kyla's precious pendant in his hairy paw, he escaped madly from his wretched past into the unglimpsed future…_

Spencer's eyes rolled back into place as the nightmarish visions let her loose at last. She blinked groggily and took several deep, ragged breaths before looking up into Glen's watchful eyes. The bearded lycan regarded Spencer with obvious curiosity and concern; he had no idea that Spencer had just lived through the most harrowing hours of his life. Spencer felt sick to her stomach. _I understand now,_ she realized numbly. "They forced you to watch her die. Kyla. That's what started this war." Glen's jaw dropped. He looked as if he'd just been hit by Ashley's Jaguar all over again. The crest-shaped pendant—_Kyla's pendant_—glittered upon his chest. "How do you know this?" he asked in an awestruck whisper. "I've seen it," Spencer confessed. "Your memories. As if I were actually there." Obviously, Glen's bite somehow had transferred more than just the virus that caused lycanthropy. "But why? How could he do that to her?" Glen's voice took on a bitter edge. "I was just a slave, of course, and she… she was Raife's daughter." _His daughter?_ Spencer's brain scrambled to make sense of all this new information. Ashley had spoken highly of Raife, claiming that he had saved her life after the werewolves killed her family. Could this possibly be the same vampire who had condemned his own daughter to death? "They kept lycans as slaves?" Glen nodded. He slumped back against the edge of a rough-hewn lab counter, clearly shocked to be having this conversation. "We were their guardians during the daylight hours, the hellhounds of ancient lore. At one time, we had run wild, stalked by the vampires' relentless Death Dealers, who feared that we would incite the mortals' fury against both lycan and vampire alike, but by the fifteenth century, when Kyla and I dared to love each other, we had been thoroughly domesticated. We protected the vampires by day, and in return, they took us in, fed us, clothed us, and kept us under lock and key during the nights of full moon, when our unchecked depredations might have endangered us all." He sighed, remembering. "It was an age of distrust and superstition. Suspected werewolves were being burned alive throughout Europe, while innocent corpses, and some not so innocent, were being staked and beheaded by fearful priests and peasants. We were forced to work together to survive, but they took advantage of the situation." The venomous rancour returned to his voice, stoked by an undying fury that had survived the centuries. "It was forbidden, our union. Raife feared a blending of the species. Feared it enough to kill his only daughter. Burned alive… for loving me." To Spencer's surprise, Glen rolled up his own sleeve. He leaned back against the crumbling wall of the old subway station. "This is his war. Raife's," Glen said with simmering ire. "He's spent the last six hundred years exterminating our species." He jabbed the needle into his arm, injecting Spencer's blood into his own veins. "And your blood, Spencer, is going to bring an end to it all." _My blood?_ Spencer thought, baffled. She still didn't understand that part. _What's so special about me?_


	28. Chapter 28

_**Chapter Twenty-eight**_

A knock at the door of the infirmary interrupted Glen's tense conversation with Spencer. He turned away from the captive American as Pierce and Taylor entered the refitted subway station. The two lycans had discarded their ersatz police uniforms in favour of their usual brown leather attire. "We have company," Pierce announced. _Of course,_ Glen thought. He did not need to ask who their guests were. Only Aiden and his minions knew of this hidden lair. Nodding, he calmly extracted the needle from his arm. He placed a finger against the crook of his elbow, applying pressure to the site of the puncture. Spencer's singular blood cells now flowed through his veins; he was one step closer to his long-sought apotheosis. All he needed now was the blood of an elder vampire to complete the process and bring him the victory he had craved for centuries. This close to success, Aiden and his thugs were an unwelcome annoyance. Glen could only assume that Aiden had bungled things at the manor if he was now seeking sanctuary in the lycans' subterranean lair. _The fool,_ Glen thought in contempt. Soon he would no longer require Aiden's deceitful cooperation. He headed for the exit, anxious to complete the night's historic business. "Wait!" Spencer called out as Glen walked away deliberately. In truth, the lycan leader nearly had forgotten about the captured American. "What about Ashley?" the young woman asked anxiously. _That vampire bitch?_ Glen recalled. _The one who shot me full of silver a few nights back? _She would perish with the rest of her despicable breed. 

Glen's private quarters, located deep within the underworld, were distressingly unlike the luxurious settings Aiden was accustomed to. Dark and dismal in the extreme, the bleak compartment reflected the joyless and obsessive nature of its absent owner. Stark metal shelves, loaded with rolled-up maps and stores of UV ammunition, jutted from disintegrating brick walls, while an ugly steel desk occupied one corner of the claustrophobic chamber. A detailed map of Ordoghaz, its defences and interior layout, was spread out atop the metal desktop, with the exact location of the Elders' crypt circled in red. A yellowing skull, with unmistakably vampire fangs, rested atop a nearby shelf, and Aiden couldn't help wondering whose skull it was. Grease-stained windows looked out onto the bunker's cavernous central chamber, the size of a jet hangar. Far too many lycans, at least for Aiden's taste, scurried about outside, coming and going on elevated catwalks and subway tracks like so many foul-smelling, subhuman worker ants. The noisome atmosphere of the lair stank of petroleum, animal droppings, and lycan piss. Aiden held a silk handkerchief over his mouth and nose, but it did little to keep out the stench. _How have I sunk to this?_ he thought bitterly. _I should be presiding over a palace, not hiding beneath the earth in a den of filthy animals! _Lycan soldiers surrounded Aiden and his meagre security force. The snarling beast-men held the vampires at gunpoint while they waited upon Glen's pleasure. Aiden prayed there were no itchy fingers among the barbaric henchmen.

After several tense minutes, Glen entered the chamber. He regarded Aiden and the others with ill-concealed annoyance. "I thought we had a deal!" Aiden accused him. _How dare this presumptuous canine treat him like an unwanted intruder! _"Patience, Aiden," Glen replied. His seeming civility barely masked a mocking, dismissive tone. The lycan commander gestured at Aiden's men while addressing his own. "I would speak with Lord Aiden alone. Please escort the rest of our guests to the lounge." Aiden found it hard to believe that anything as civilized as a visitors' lounge could be found in this foul, abysmal kennel. Nevertheless, he nodded at Soren, consenting to the arrangement. It was important, after all, to retain some semblance of Authority, even as events rapidly spun out of control. _Six hundred years of planning,_ he reflected sourly, _and everything goes to hell in the last forty-eight hours!_  
>Reluctantly, Soren let himself and the other bodyguards be led away from Glen's quarters. He glanced unhappily over his shoulder at Lord Aiden, until the master and his lycan counterpart disappeared from view. He didn't like leaving Aiden alone, not one bit. A pack of lycan scum escorted them at gunpoint through a maze of winding, unmarked catacombs. Two of the subhuman savages were familiar to Soren. He identified the pair, from previous dealings with Glen, as Pierce and Taylor. He regretted that Clay was not among them.<p>

Vampire and lycanthrope marched in sullen silence, trading only hostile glares and sneers. Their uneasy trek ended at the rear of what appeared to be another abandoned bunker, where the long-haired lycan, Pierce, demanded that the vampires surrender their weapons. Outnumbered and under the gun, Soren instructed his men to turn over their firearms. He glowered sullenly at both Taylor and Pierce as he handed over his own HK P7. An impertinent lycan frisked him for hidden weapons, but the vampire's baleful gaze and intimidating attitude ensured that the search was both short and perfunctory. Satisfied, the lycan escorts stepped aside to let Soren and his men enter the indicated chamber. The undead janissary arched a suspicious eyebrow at what he found within. The so-called lounge was surprisingly hospitable-looking. A plush red carpet covered the floor of the long, narrow chamber, while the original benches apparently had been ripped out and replaced with richly upholstered couches and easy chairs. Heavy damask curtains covered the windows, and frosted amber ceiling lamps cast a warm golden glow over the premises. There was even a decent maple coffee table, stacked with dog-eared reading material. Nature and hunting magazines, primarily, a trifle out of date. If you squinted, you almost could pretend you were back in the mansion. Almost. _I don't like this,_ Soren thought warily. Why would gutter-dwelling lycans need a place like this? How often could they expect honoured guests? He glanced back at the entrance. Pierce grinned evilly at Soren as he slammed the door shut. Soren heard the sound of heavy locks falling into place. _Hellfire!_ Growling, he ran to the nearest window and tore down the curtain. Beneath the heavy drapes, thick Plexiglas windows were reinforced with gleaming titanium bars at least three centimetres across. He pounded angrily on the unyielding plastic, his worst fears confirmed. This was no lounge. It was a trap. "Son of a bitch!" 

Back at Glen's quarters, Aiden waited for the lycan leader to treat him with the respect he deserved. _I am your ally in this affair,_ he thought testily, _not some pawn to be disposed of. _Visibly impatient, Glen took a calming breath before addressing Aiden in soothing tones: "The Council has been destroyed. Soon you will have it all. Both great covens and a historic peace treaty with the lycans." He flashed a conspiratorial smirk. "Who I trust will not be forgotten when the spoils of victory are tabulated." Glen's silky assurances were not enough to allay Aiden's concerns. "How do you expect me to assume control?" he demanded irritably. Their original plan—to take command of the covens in the confusion following the Elders' assassination—lay in ruins. "Now that Raife's been awakened, there is no defeating him. He grows stronger even as we speak!" That did not appear to worry Glen. "And that is precisely why I needed Spencer Carlin." He gave Aiden a cryptic smile. 

The armoury. A half dozen lycans went about their duties, loading ammo, cleaning weapons, and generally preparing for an all-out assault on the vampires' mansion. Bright-eyed men and women, wearing shabby brown clothing and military fatigues, beamed in anticipation, eager to carry their ancient war to the enemies' very doorstep. The sharp report of gunfire immediately electrified the soldiers inside the old bunker. They snatched up their weapons instinctively. Had the cowardly bloods launched a pre-emptive strike? The door burst open, and Pierce and Taylor stuck their heads through the entrance. High-calibre semiautomatic weapons were clutched tightly in their hands. "Entrance shaft alpha!" Pierce shouted. "Move it!"  
>Glen's quarters. Aiden and Glen shared a surprised look as the unmistakable roar of gunfire echoed through the meandering tunnels. For an instant, Aiden feared that Soren and his men had been summarily executed by Glen's forces, but no, the gunshots seemed to be coming from a different direction—not that he could tell easily in this bewildering maze of rat holes! Within seconds, an even more dismaying explanation hit him with the force of certainty. <em>Death Dealers!<em> he realized, his face going pale. _Sean and Ashley and the rest of their leather-clad assassins. Maybe even Raife himself. _His undead heart pounded within his chest. _They've come for me!_

The rusted metal grate was just where Ashley remembered it, but now the grate itself had been torn up and carelessly tossed to one side, leaving only a gaping black pit in the floor of the drainage tunnel. She recalled running for her life through this very tunnel, pursued by an enraged werewolf. Had that truly been only two nights ago? She felt as though her entire world had turned upside-down since then. _Before I knew what my purpose was, where my loyalties lay,_ she lamented privately. _Now I'm not so sure. _She and Sean stepped over the lifeless bodies of a pair of lycan guards. Each corpse bore a single bloody bullet wound in its forehead. The dead lycans had defended the entrance to the werewolves' underground lair, but not for long. Ashley had to assume, however, that the short-lived gun battle had been heard in the unexplored catacombs below. _So much for the element of surprise,_ she thought. Sean raised his hand, signalling the Death Dealers behind him. The assault team, consisting of six additional operatives, swept forward, staking out defensive positions in the newly secured stretch of tunnel. Oiled black leather helped the taciturn Death Dealers blend in with the inky shadows around them. AK-74 assault rifles, loaded with silver ammo and equipped with infrared night scopes, were prepped for action. Ashley chose to stick with her trusty Berettas. She kept her guns raised and ready as Sean cautiously approached the open pit. Peering over his shoulder, she saw that the top of the shaft had been surrounded with chain-link fencing and concertina wire. Apparently, the lycans didn't want visitors. _Tough,_ she thought coldly. One way or another, she was going to find Spencer. Sean unhitched a silver-plated grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. He tossed it toward the pit, and Ashley held her breath as the explosive device bounced noisily across the cement like a huge ball bearing. It clinked one more time before disappearing over the edge of the pit. Ashley thought she heard something moving below…


	29. Chapter 29

_**Chapter Twenty-nine**_

Seen from the bottom, the yawning pit was revealed to be an old elevator shaft lined with steel ladders. Taylor and the other lycans scrambled up the ladders toward the unknown source of the echoing gunshots. In theory two of their fellow lycans were posted at the top of the shaft, but Taylor wasn't holding out much hope for their chances. If they had been the ones doing the shooting, they already would have called for reinforcements. _Damn bloods!_ It was just like them to stage a sneak attack right before Glen's master plan came to fruition. _We've got them running scared,_ he decided, putting a positive spin on the situation. _They know their days are numbered. _Then the grenade tumbled past him. His beady eyes widened in alarm as the silver fragmentation device clanged against the concrete walls before splashing down into the deep puddles of murky water at the bottom of the shaft. "Oh, shit!" Pierce swore, only a few rungs beneath him. Like every other lycan climbing the ladders, Taylor threw himself flat against the metal rungs, trying to present as narrow a target as possible. A flash from below was followed instantly by an earth-shaking blast that sent a fountain of sludge rocketing up the shaft, along with a spray of white-hot silver shrapnel. The toxic fragments sliced through lycan flesh and clothing, shredding Taylor and the others to ribbons. His leather gear was instantly turned into bloody confetti. He screamed in agony as he lost hold of the ladder and fell backward down the shaft. Taylor crashed to earth a split second after Pierce, but they were both dead before they hit the ground. 

Glen's quarters. An explosive tremor rocked the cramped compartment. The heavy steel desk teetered like a wobbly stool, while the windows rattled and lightbulbs flickered and popped. The skull on the bookshelf, which had once belonged to a particularly formidable Death Dealer, toppled from its perch, crashing into bony fragments upon the hard concrete floor. Sweat ran down Aiden's aristocratic features. "Raife," he murmured fearfully, while Glen sneered at the cowardly vampire quisling. The gunfire and explosion were alarming, true, but Glen held onto his nerve without difficulty. He had been in far tighter pinches than this over the last six hundred years. _I hope Raife is here,_ he thought. His fingers stroked the precious pendant upon his chest. _We have old scores to settle, he and I._ The dreaded Elder was powerful, but soon Glen would be more than his match. _All I need is Christine's blood. _Another explosion shook the underworld. Glen heard the strident wail of twisting metal coming from outside his private chamber, and he rushed to the window, pressing his face against the streaky glass. The compartment looked out onto the enormous central cavity of the bunker itself. Catwalks, ladders, and tiers of forgotten subway tracks covered the towering walls of the massive excavation like rusty metallic ivy. Glen's gray eyes narrowed in concern as, near the top of the gargantuan bunker, a huge steel pipe burst asunder, releasing a torrent of pressurized water high above the lower levels of his people's sanctuary. An artificial deluge poured down upon the underworld like a sudden storm. Glen bit his lip. _This complicates matters,_ he fretted, praying that the flooding would not interfere with Clay's delivery of the final injection. _ I need an Elder's blood within me to achieve the next level of immortal evolution. _

"Is there another way out?" Aiden asked him anxiously, like a rat already preparing to desert a sinking ship. The ousted regent wrung his hands as his shifty gaze darted about the room, hoping perhaps for a secret passageway out of the bunker altogether. Glen turned away from the window. He regarded his supposed ally with disgust. "I guess it never occurred to you that you might actually have to bleed a bit to pull off this little coup." He tugged a UV pistol from his belt and racked a brightly glowing round into the chamber. The vampire winced at the sight of the luminous ammunition, and Glen shot him a threatening look. "Don't even think about leaving." The lycan commander whirled toward the door. The sooner he rendezvoused with Clay and received the final injection, the sooner he would be able to exact gory vengeance on Raife and his bloodsucking parasites.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM! A bone-shattering impact slammed repeatedly into his back. He collapsed face first onto the dusty concrete floor, feeling a burning sensation along his spine. _Silver,_ he realized instantly, recognizing the excruciating heat at once. _I've been shot! _With effort, he lifted his head from the floor and looked back over his shoulder. Aiden stared down at him, clutching a smoking pistol of unfamiliar design. The preening vampire smirked as he contemplated his perfidious handiwork. _You'll pay for this treachery,_ Glen vowed, _once I expel these cursed bullets from my flesh._ He closed his eyes, and his lofty brow furrowed in concentration as he sought to rid his body of the deadly silver, just as he had done only a few nights before. Time was of the essence; he needed to squeeze out the bullets before the toxic metal poisoned him irrevocably. To his distress, however, the fiery venom already seemed to be racing through his veins and arteries. Shocked and confused, he raised his hand before his eyes. The shallow veins running along the back of his hand grew swollen and discoloured as he watched. The dark gray tracery extended from his wrist to his fingertips, pulsating beneath his skin. _What foul invention is this?_ he thought, eyes wide with horror. An agonized groan escaped his lips. "Silver nitrate," Aiden explained breezily. He stepped forward and pried Glen's own pistol from the lycan's palsied grip. "I wager you weren't expecting that." 

The armoury. More lycans poured into the crowded bunker, snatching guns and ammunition from the mounted weapon racks. Other lycans, disdaining human modes of combat, ripped apart their garments, hastening the Change. Claws extended from splayed human fingers. Knife-sized fangs stretched open protruding muzzles. Bushy black fur clothed naked skin, which took on an inhuman bluish-gray hue beneath the thick, matted hair. Twitching snouts sniffed the air. Foam dripped from hungry jaws. Gun-toting soldiers jostled shoulders with shaggy biped beasts. Heated profanities competed with canine growls as the pack rushed to defend its lair. The final battle had begun. 

The prison chamber. Soren paced restlessly up and down the spurious "lounge." His fists were clenched at his sides, and he hissed through clenched fangs as he heard the unmistakable sounds of warfare without. To be locked away from the combat, trapped inside this sumptuously furnished cage, infuriated him. More shouts and gunfire echoed outside. Frustrated, his men looked to him for a solution. His dark brown eyes scanned the interior of the camouflaged prison chamber, settling on a vertical chrome pipe about five centimetres in diameter. _That will have to do,_ he decided. He seized hold of the post with both hands and attempted to wrench it from its setting. It was sturdier than it looked, which boded well for his ultimate objective. Straining his muscles, he snapped the pipe off at its base. He twirled the liberated bar in his grip, then aimed it at the locked steel door like a battering ram. 

Armed lycans stalked down a debris-littered access corridor leading to the violated entrance shaft. The gloppy floor was awash in the blood and mangled remains of their murdered comrades. Fragments of deadly silver shrapnel were still embedded in the flaking brick walls surrounding them. More fully transformed werewolves joined their ranks, crawling up through open sewage grates from dens and whelping chambers one level down. Their monstrous, oversized heads and pointed ears brushed against the soot-stained ceiling, and their enormous paws left Sasquatch-sized tracks in the rampant blood and gore. The beasts' furry hackles were raised in warning, and their rubbery black lips were peeled back to expose their serrated yellow teeth. Cruel cobalt eyes glowed in the shadows. The mixed lycans and werewolves crept closer to the arched stone doorway opening onto the entrance shaft. Grisly evidence of the devastating explosions was everywhere, in the freshly gouged brickwork and in the splattered residue of their fallen pack mates. Smoke hung in the charnel-house atmosphere of the shaft, and the acrid odour of gunpowder and high explosives offended the sensitive nostrils of the werewolves on point, making it all the harder to scent their prey. A faint metallic click came from above, and the beasts' ears rotated toward the noise.

Too late! Gunfire erupted from the top of the blood-spattered elevator shaft, driving the wolves and lycans back before a blistering cascade of unleashed firepower. Taunting gravity, Ashley and the Death Dealers came swooping down through the veil of smoke like leather-clad angels of death. Bright white flashes blazed from the muzzles of their clattering weapons as they cut down the first wave of lycan defenders. The clamorous report of the guns drowned out the screams and yelps of lycans and werewolves alike. Bodies both human and otherwise dropped onto the floor of the tunnel, joining the ghastly agglomeration of mud, blood, and shredded carcasses clotting the corridor. Although caught off guard, the surviving lycans hurriedly regrouped and took the battle back to the enemy. All hell broke loose as the embattled defenders returned fire. Red-hot silver streaked past glowing UV rounds in the smoky air between the oncoming vampires and the besieged lycans. Ashley impatiently squeezed the triggers of her twin Berettas. She emptied one pistol completely then discarded the spent weapon. This was taking too long; the lycans were putting up too much resistance. She didn't have time for this. She needed to find Spencer. 

The prison chamber. A metallic clang reverberated through the plush containment cell as Soren rammed the ruptured steel bar into the locked door at the end of the refitted bomb shelter. The door shuddered in its frame before bursting from its hinges. It landed with a heavy thud on the floor of the decaying brick tunnel outside. Soren was the first one out the exit, quickly followed by the rest of his security team. His palm itched for his captured P7. He felt naked without a loaded firearm. A burly lycan, his rumpled shirtfront bearing the greasy residue of an interrupted meal, came charging around the corner, no doubt attracted by the noisy demise of the prison door. He gripped a butcher knife in one hand and a wooden stake in the other. Soren swung his metal staff like a baseball bat, catching the oncoming lycan in the midsection. Ribs shattered with a satisfying crunch, and the poleaxed barbarian dropped to the ground, where Soren gave his skull a few more whacks for good measure. _I'd rather be demolishing Clay,_ he admitted, frowning, _but this unwashed savage will do for now. _Once he was convinced the pulverized lycan wasn't going to be getting up again, Soren stepped back from his victim and tossed the brute's knife and stake to two of his unarmed men. To his disappointment, the dead lycan didn't appear to be carrying anything with a bit more firepower. _Very well,_ he conceded, hefting his bloodied staff. He didn't need bullets to kill lycan scum. His narrowed eyes searched the darksome tunnels, trying to remember the route back to Glen's quarters where he had left Aiden with the treacherous lycan leader. Why did these loathsome animals have to live in such a tangled warren, anyway? _This way,_ he decided quickly. He nodded at the other vampires. "Move, come on!" Holding the captured steel rod like a club, he led his men away from the prison chamber. It was time to teach their lycan allies a lesson. 

Clay held on tightly to the large glass syringe, filled with the blood of the female Elder, as he hurried in search of Glen. The lair was clearly under attack by their enemies, but the scarlet elixir in the syringe, combined with the mortal blood Glen already had injected into his veins, surely would deliver victory to the pack, provided he got the blood to Glen in time. _These arrogant bloods are in for a nasty surprise,_ he mused, grinning wolfishly in anticipation. Soon Glen would be unstoppable. He arrived within minutes at Glen's private quarters. Barging into the room unannounced, he was shocked to find a familiar figure lying motionless in a puddle of blood upon the gritty concrete floor. A metallic pendant glittered around the casualty's neck. "Glen!" The lycan lieutenant could not believe his eyes. Their supreme commander was sprawled face first in the blood. Gory bullet wounds, leaking a peculiar metallic fluid, gaped from the back of Glen's brown leather duster, making it abundantly clear how the legendary immortal had met his end. _Those stinking bloods have betrayed us!_ Clay raged inwardly. And by slaying Glen, they had extinguished the packs last, best hope for victory over the hated vampires. Despair vied with blood lust within the lycan's wild heart. _We should never have trusted those cold-blooded leeches! _

Rapid bootsteps approached from outside. Clay tore his homicidal gaze away from Glen's martyred corpse to see Soren—_Soren!_—and his men rushed through the bunker's main chamber, looking slightly lost. A cascade of water poured down from a broken pipe high overhead. Clay shook with fury, unable to contain himself. For all he knew, Aiden's detestable bodyguard had fired the shots that had killed possibly the greatest lycanthrope of all time. The blood-filled syringe slipped from Clay's shaking fingers, to shatter upon the hard cement floor. He didn't even notice as he maniacally threw himself through the window at the vampires. Glass exploded outward as Clay tackled Soren, knocking a bloodied steel truncheon from the janissary's grasp. Grunting and growling, they rolled across the drenched, uneven floor of the bunker before breaking apart and springing to their feet a few meters away from each other. Soren's henchmen surged forward, but the vampire waved them back, a bloodthirsty smile on his face. He had been looking forward to this battle for as long as Clay had. He peeled off his leather jacket, revealing a pair of twin silver whips wrapped tightly around his torso. Sneering at his bald-headed lycan nemesis, he uncoiled both whips in two fluid movements. 

The infirmary. Growls, gunshots, screams, and explosions gnawed away at Spencer's nerves as she frantically struggled to free herself from the angled examination table. She was alone in the dingy laboratory, while what sounded like an all-out war raged somewhere outside the walls of the converted subway station. _I've gotta get out of here!_ She panicked. Her veins stood out like steel cords as she strained to break apart the cuffs trapping her arms behind the table. The cold steel edges of the cuffs dug into her wrists, threatening to cut off her circulation, but Spencer kept tugging on the chain. Anything was better than being locked up inside a war zone, unable to defend herself. At the back of her mind, an eerie howl was rising again. Whatever those "cops" dosed her with was apparently wearing off; even God knows how many feet beneath the ground, Spencer somehow could sense the moon ascending in the distant sky, shining full and bright over the city above. Its celestial influence penetrated dense layers of stone and concrete to trigger something dark and primordial within Spencer's soul. Goosebumps broke out on her skin, and every hair on her body seemed to stand up at attention. Her heart rampaged wildly, flooding her veins with renewed strength and adrenaline. _One more try,_ she thought stubbornly, straining her quivering muscles to the utmost. _SNAP!_ The chain linking the cuffs broke apart, freeing her arms. She had torn a solid metal chain in two. "Holy shit," Spencer whispered. 


	30. Chapter 30

_**Chapter Thirty**_

The silver whips felt at home in Soren's grip, just as in the old days when he had served as overseer on Raife's sprawling estate in the Carpathians, before the damned lycans rose up in revolt. _Time to remind these insolent mongrels of their place,_ he decided. "Go!" he ordered his men gruffly. "Keep looking for Lord Aiden." Standing on the soaked floor of the bunker's main chamber, he faced off against that black barbarian, Clay. Water rained down from above, slowly flooding the vast excavation. "Don't worry," he assured the other vampires as they fanned out into the branching tunnels. "This won't take long." One after another, the whips lashed out, claiming first blood. Twin lacerations opened on Clay's cheeks, and the snarling lycan raised a hand to his face, bringing away fingers stained brightly red. Soren smiled, pleased that Glen's guards had missed the coiled whips earlier. Next time, they would have to frisk him more carefully—if there was a next time. Angry brown eyes glared back at Soren, then instantly changed colour, turning a brilliant shade of blue. A low rumble began in Clay's broad chest, rapidly deepening in timbre. Bone and gristle crackled loudly as the lycan's shaved skull began to stretch and deform. Despite his confidence and adamantine sense of certain superiority Soren felt a tremor of apprehension as his lycan adversary transformed before his eyes. 

Glen's quarters. More explosions rocked the underworld, rousing Glen despite the silver nitrate that was surely killing him. His seemingly lifeless body twitched on the floor, and he slowly forced his eyes open. Groaning in misery, he sat up and rested his back against a hard brick wall. His somber garments were soaked through with his own blood, and he could taste the deadly silver on his swollen tongue. He reached instinctively for Kyla's pendant, relieved to find it still dangling from his neck. He was dying, he realized, but he was not done yet. 

The lycans' sleeping quarters were just as revolting as Aiden had envisioned them. Filthy mattresses littered the floor, along with gnawed bones and half-empty bottles of wine and beer. Crumpled pornographic magazines of exceptional coarseness added to the squalor, along with heaps of unwashed clothing. The pungent stench of the place was unendurable. The mattresses were unoccupied now, with every lycan gone to defend his sanctuary, so Aiden had the squalid chamber to himself. He looked about him in haste, trying to figure out the quickest way back to the surface—and out of the catastrophe his eternal life had become. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and Aiden froze in fear. He wasn't sure whom he dreaded most, the rapacious lycans or the invading Death Dealers. It might even be preferable to be devoured by a horde of carnivorous werewolves, rather than face Raife and his unthinkable wrath. _At least I don't need to worry about Glen anymore,_ he consoled himself, happy to have blasted the lycan leader full of silver nitrate. It was perversely amusing in a way: after years of falsely taking credit for Glen's death, he finally had killed the legendary monster after all. _It's not a lie anymore but too late to do me any good! _The footsteps turned out to belong to a squad of lycan soldiers rushing past the doorway. Aiden retreated into the shadows of the sordid den, hiding from sight. _There has to be some way out of this calamity,_ he thought. He held his breath as he listened to the snarling lycans. A cold sweat glued his silk tunic to his skin. _I've lived too long and too well to die in some godforsaken sewer!_

So far, lycan tenacity had proven no match for Death Dealer expertise. Their enemies either fallen or fleeing before them, Ashley and Sean had swept relentlessly down the cramped access corridor like an unstoppable killing machine. Ashley fired her Beretta at will, shooting every hairy apparition that dared to show a flash of yellow fang or claw. An unaccountable emptiness afflicted her. This was what she lived for, after all, so why did it now feel so hollow? Killing lycans by the score brought her no pleasure, not while Spencer remained missing and in deadly jeopardy. _Raife expects me to kill Spencer,_ she recalled. _And Sean and the others will be more than happy to help. _The explosions had opened a sizable crack in the tunnel's poorly maintained brick wall. Pausing to peer through the gap, Ashley spied a vast central chamber, the size of a football stadium. _Some leftover wartime bunker?_ she speculated. The massive excavation looked large enough to house a small army of lycans. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered from inside an abandoned Metro station, located on the perimeter of the central chamber. Her chestnut eyes widened as she spotted a slender blonde-haired figure through the windows of the station, fighting to break free from some sort of restraints. She recognized the struggling prisoner instantly. _Spencer!_

Sean led the assault team down the stygian corridor, past an apparently empty intersection. His expert eyes and ears were alert to danger. So far, the invasion was going smoothly, but he was taking no chances. The cramped and underlet nature of the lycans' underground lair made it the perfect venue for ambushes and booby traps. They were going have to be extremely careful—and lucky—to avoid losing any Death Dealers in this operation. There had been no choice but to attack, though. The shocking assassination of Christine and her entire Council demanded immediate retaliation, especially if the infamous Glen was indeed still alive and plotting against the coven. Capturing Aiden, and bringing the fugitive regent to justice, was also a priority. Sean's cold blood seethed at the thought of Aiden's treachery. To think that Aiden once had been a Death Dealer himself. _Never in spirit,_ Sean admitted in retrospect, and now it appeared that Aiden's greatest accomplishment as a warrior—slaying Glen—was nothing more than a self-serving hoax. _I should have known,_ Sean thought. He castigated himself for not seeing through Aiden's treasonous deceptions earlier. _Ashley tried to warn me. _At least the stubborn female Death Dealer had been exonerated after a fashion. Sean had no doubt that Ashley would prove herself by eliminating this Spencer that Raife was concerned about. Sean had fought beside Ashley in many a battle. Her commitment to the war could not be questioned. Something rustled in the darkness behind him. He turned to make sure Ashley was still watching his back. To his surprise, she wasn't. "Ashley?" He whirled around in time to see the tail of her black trench coat snapping around a corner. The flapping garment swiftly disappeared down one of the branching corridors, heading toward only the Elders knew where. "Ashley!" 

The crack in the wall was too narrow to squeeze through, so Ashley was forced to find another route to Spencer. She ran down a muddy tunnel, holding the Beretta in front of her. Brackish water trickled down the mouldy walls. Spider webs impeded her progress, clinging to her like filmy fingertips. Brick and mortar crashed behind her. She spun around and saw two rampaging werewolves explode from a collapsed archway. The gigantic beasts howled at the sight of her and immediately gave chase, pouncing from wall to wall as they charged toward her, fangs bared, eager to tear her to pieces. Froth flew from the corners of their snapping jaws. Ashley ran for her life, firing back over her shoulder. Gunshots echoed loudly in the dusky corridor, and the lead werewolf hit the mucky floor. His furry bulk tumbled end over end, splashing mud and clay everywhere. Smoke rose from the silver-tainted bullet holes in his pelt, filling the tunnel with the smell of burning flesh. _One down,_ Ashley thought, not slowing down for a second. Her lungs sucked down the polluted air as she sprinted at full speed down the tunnel. For all she knew, every second counted. She prayed that Glen had not already drained Spencer of every last drop of her precious blood. Not far behind her, the second werewolf lunged through the acrid smoke hissing from his dying partner. His powerful hind legs carried him forward by leaps and bounds. Ashley could practically feel the beast's hot breath upon the back of her neck. She tore around a corner, still heading roughly toward Spencer, and risked a look over her shoulder. Shit! The werewolf was still in hot pursuit, splashing through the slimy puddles like a veritable hound of hell. Her head snapped around to see where she was going—and another werewolf suddenly reared up in front of her. An inhuman roar assailed her ears as a monstrous claw swiped at her. Decades of hard-won battle experience kicked in, and Ashley sprang into the air, soaring just below the vaulted ceiling of the macabre tunnel. She arced over the looming werewolf, firing her gun as she smoothly tumbled head over heels. Silver riddled the beast's skull, and he dropped to his death only a heartbeat before Ashley's boots splashed down less than a meter past the exterminated creature. Landing squarely on the floor, she expertly ejected an empty magazine from her Beretta and slammed a fresh one into place. _Two down, one to go._ She turned around with deadly speed and opened fire on the onrushing werewolf. White-hot death flared from the muzzle of the Beretta as she nailed the creature in the air above the second lupine fatality. Scarlet flowers blossomed across the monster's furry chest. The werewolf crashed to earth, twitching spasmodically not twenty paces away from her. Jagged claws flailed wildly, and furious jaws snapped at empty air. The spewing foam around the beast's muzzle took on a crimson hue, but still the creature refused to die. Ashley stepped forward calmly and delivered two point-blank shots to his skull. _Three down._

Aiden nervously inched his way toward the entrance shaft leading back up into the city's Metro system. Judging from the butchered lycan and werewolf corpses strewn about the access corridor, Sean and his Death Dealers already had blasted their way through this particular stretch of tunnel, making it unlikely that Aiden would run into them on his way out of the underworld. Or so he hoped. Bullet holes and fragmented silver shrapnel bore mute evidence to the fighting the corridor had seen. The welter of blood and body parts grew deeper the closer Aiden came to the abandoned elevator shaft, so that he found himself knee-deep in gore, wading through the gruesome leavings of the Death Dealers' passage. Few would have recognized the once-dashing regent of Ordoghaz. Sweat, mud, and blood dripped from his designer clothes, while his flowing Byronic locks were disordered and plastered to his skull. Jewel-studded rings glittered ironically upon his trembling fingers, multifaceted reminders of just how far he had fallen. He gripped the stolen silver nitrate gun in his sweaty fist. _Ashley will pay for this humiliation,_ he vowed, a truculent expression on his face as he arrived at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Lycan corpses, including two he recognized as Pierce and Taylor, lay in pieces beneath the rising ladders. The brutal deaths of so many vile lycans did little to appease Aiden's sense of righteous indignation. _They will all pay, Sean and Raife and the rest. Just as Glen did. _Tucking the gun into his belt, Aiden began to climb up the rusty metal ladder. This close to safety, his brain raced ahead, plotting his next move. From the Metro, he reasoned, he could reach the bus to Ferihegy Airport, where any number of escape options presented themselves. (Best to avoid the train station, where Sean's agents still might be investigating Christine's death.) As for final destinations, he was probably better off fleeing eastern Europe altogether, perhaps even the Continent. Asia maybe, or South America. _Once I'm safely barricaded in an impenetrable fortress somewhere,_ he schemed, _I can begin to rebuild my power. Soren can assist me, if he survives tonight's bloodbath, or perhaps that idiot servant girl back at the mansion…_

Climbing hand over hand, he finally reached the top of the elevator shaft. He peeked warily over the edge of the shaft, and his face turned white as a ghost. There, striding ominously toward the open pit, was Raife himself. The mighty Elder, restored at last to his full strength, wore the garments and trappings of a medieval monarch, complete with a huge two-handed sword. A dark red robe, brocaded with an intricate design not unlike a spiders web, was draped upon Raife's regal form. His sacred medallion rested on his exposed chest, and a pair of sharp silver daggers adorned his belt. He advanced from the shadows of the decrepit drainage tunnel as though emerging triumphantly out of the bygone reaches of history. Three modern-day Death Dealers, clad in contemporary leather attire, marched behind Raife, but Aiden barely noticed the superfluous warriors. Raife alone was enough to strike terror into his heart. Biting down on his lip to keep from gasping out loud, Aiden let go of the ladder, plummeting more than six meters in the space of a second. He landed with a _splat_ in the muck and gore below, his fall cushioned only by the putrefying heap of dead lycans at the foot of the shaft. Rising quickly, he made a move toward the exit, only to slip on the abundant blood and viscera. His feet careened out from beneath him, and he fell backward into the nauseating pool of carnage. Only the night before, he had sipped cool, refreshing blood from the naked breast of a beautiful vampiress. Now he found himself sprawling gracelessly at the bottom of a stinking sewer, soaked in the unclean blood and filth of butchered, subhuman animals. Could anything be more unfair? But there was no time to reflect on the gross ignominy of his downfall. Raife was coming, sword in hand, and Aiden knew he had to get away. After scrabbling through the muck on his hands and knees, Aiden clumsily staggered to his feet. His drenched clothing, which was liberally bedecked with a revolting mixture of blood and sludge, weighed heavily on his shaking frame as he hastened away from the pit into the shattered wreckage of the adjacent corridor. _Ashley will pay for this,_ he vowed once more, _and her lycan lover, too!_

Glen's quarters. Every muscle ached as Glen climbed painfully to his feet. His head spun, and he slumped against the wall, waiting for the dizziness to subside. He could feel the liquid silver burning away at him from the inside out. Steeling himself to face the worst, he raised his arm in front of his face. The distended veins bubbled and squirmed beneath his skin like wriggling worms. He winced in agony as his hand curled into an arthritic claw. In his heart, he knew it was too late for him; not even Christine's blood could save him now. Soon he would join his beloved Kyla in eternity. "Not… yet," he grunted. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he lurched away from the wall. Darkness encroached on his vision, yet he refused to black out. Slowly, one halting step at a time, he staggered out of the dismal chamber. The end was near, but he had something important to do first: kill Aiden. 

The infirmary. Snapping apart the handcuffs was not enough. Spencer still had to break loose from the thick nylon straps binding her to the table. She strained with all her might, calling upon whatever atavistic potential the distant moon had awakened in her, until finally several overlapping strips gave way, freeing her right hand. _That's more like it!_ Spencer thought, elated by her victory. _Maybe I'm actually going to get away from this madhouse. _A rusty creak interrupted her moment of triumph. At the rear of the lab, beyond the translucent plastic curtain, the door slowly swung open. Heavy footprints, not unlike the ones she had heard on the roof of her apartment two nights ago, stomped on the floor of the dimly lit subway station. A monstrous shape entered the infirmary, its half-human silhouette obscured by the curtain. Dread washed over Spencer. Despite everything that had happened to her over the past few nights, she had yet to lay eyes on a bona fide werewolf. Now, it seemed, her luck was about to run out. The nightmarish intruder crept forward, audibly sniffing the faintly medicinal odour of the makeshift laboratory. Spencer could hear the beast breathing. Its unseen claws scraped noisily at the floor. A musky animal smell filled Spencer's nose and throat. Overcoming her horrified paralysis, the terrified American desperately groped at the remaining nylon straps, trying to peel them away from her body before whatever was on the other side of the grungy curtain caught up with her. She didn't stand a chance. Emitting a fearsome roar, the werewolf reared up behind the curtain, raising claws like scalpels. Spencer guessed that the monster had to be seven feet tall at least. _If a werewolf eats another werewolf,_ she wondered irrationally, _does that count as cannibalism? _The creature surged toward her. Spencer flinched in anticipation of slashing claws and teeth, then stiffened in surprise as a deafening burst of gunfire splattered werewolf blood all over the dingy shower curtain.

The bullet-stricken beast tore right through the plastic sheet and crashed to the floor only inches from Spencer, who looked up to see Ashley standing a few yards away, smoke issuing from the muzzle of her gun. _Talk about a sight for sore eyes! _Wasting no time, Ashley ran forward and slammed her boot down on the werewolf's neck, cracking vertebrae. The downed creature convulsed reflexively and Ashley methodically fired three more shots into the monster's skull. "I need to get you out of here," she said to Spencer, before the blonde could even lift her jaw from the floor. "Raife is on his way, and he won't be satisfied until every lycan is dead." Spencer flinched at the vampire's terse declaration; it felt weird to be referred to as a lycan. Her gaze shifted involuntarily to the monstrous carcass lying bleeding on the floor. _Please tell me I'm not one of those! _Although she was still in over her head, she understood enough about this insane war to appreciate what Ashley was doing for her. "They'll kill you, too," she whispered. "Just for helping me."

"I know," the brunette said, tearing off the last of the young doctor's restraints. The heavy nylon wrappings succumbed readily to her un-dead strength, and Spencer was free at last. Spencer's feet slid from the examination table onto the floor, and she found herself standing in front of Ashley, staring into her inscrutable brown eyes. The blonde reached out to the vampiress and fell into her passionate embrace. Ashley lips found hers, and, for a precious instant, they escaped the bloodshed and madness surrounding them. She kissed her hungrily, and Spencer was stirred in ways she hadn't felt since Carmen's death. It was almost worth being bitten by a werewolf, she thought rapturously, just to experience this kiss and this woman. _I don't care if she's a vampire…_Gunfire blared outside the infirmary, and Ashley reluctantly pulled away from Spencer. They both knew the bloody conflict would not leave them alone much longer. An ancient conflict was barrelling toward its genocidal conclusion, unless something could be done to stop it. "I know why the war began," the blonde told Ashley. 


	31. Chapter 31

_**Chapter Thirty-one**_

Raife and his hand-picked team of Death Dealers paraded through the battle-scarred tunnels, encountering zero resistance. The bodies of exterminated lycan soldiers were strewn before his path like rose petals. _Sean and Ashley have done well,_ he noted approvingly. He had confidence that the advance squad of Death Dealers could clear out this rat's nest without his assistance, yet it felt good to go into battle again after fully a century spent interred beneath the earth. He hoped that Ashley and the others had left him a few stragglers to dispose of, before he was called upon to exact final justice on both Glen and the traitor, Aiden. That, more than anything else, was what had lured him from the familiar comforts of Ordoghaz to this abominable, rat-infested breeding ground of lycan filth. In truth, he had been pleased to learn that Glen still lived, because it meant that he might once more have Sonja's vile seducer in his power. _I have waited six hundred years,_ he reflected, _to punish Glen for desecrating my daughter and inciting this damnable war, but tonight my vengeance will not be denied. _He looked forward, too, to watching Ashley restore herself to his good graces by eliminating the threat of this Spencer Carlin. She had been like a daughter to him, ever since he had first granted her immortality, and he could not imagine that she would ever truly betray him for the sake of some meaningless infatuation. _I know her better than that,_ he mused. _In fact, I created her._

_Where the hell are you, Ashley?_ Sean wondered as he led the remainder of the assault team deeper into the enemy's lair. It wasn't like Ashley to abandon her comrades in the middle of a mission. _There's something going on here I don't understand. _His rifle ready, Sean inched his way down yet another unmarked corridor. It had been several minutes since they had encountered any serious lycan resistance, yet Sean was not about to let down his guard, not while a single werewolf was still breathing. For perhaps the hundredth time since descending into the underworld, he regretted again that there hadn't been time to manufacture more silver nitrate cartridges before this raid. He and the others were stuck with the old-fashioned, slower-acting silver rounds while that thieving bastard Aiden apparently had pinched the only working prototype of the special silver nitrate gun. _One more reason to string him up like a side of beef when we catch him,_ Sean thought vindictively, _Slow impalement on a wooden spike will be too good for him. _A soft clattering noise caught his attention, and he flashed a hand signal to the commandos behind him. The alert Death Dealers came to an immediate halt while Sean suspiciously scouted the desolate passage ahead. Raising the muzzle of his weapon higher, he took a leery step forward. Something small and insubstantial hit the floor just in front of the toe of his boot, and he glanced upward, searching for its point of origin. His probing eyes, now well adjusted to the murk of the tunnels, spotted bits of dust and powdered mortar sprinkling from the ceiling. "Watch out!" he shouted. "We're not alone!" But his warning came too late. With a tremendous roar, a homicidal werewolf came smashing through the exploding brick wall. Sean spun toward the attacking beast, but before he could shoot, a second werewolf dropped through the crumbling ceiling in a shower of dust and debris. Caught between the frenzied creatures, Sean had less than a second to react before the werewolves' claws tore into him, rending leather and undead flesh like tissue paper. The other Death Dealers gaped in horror, watching their esteemed commander get ripped to shreds before their eyes, then opened fire on both victim and predators alike. The last thing Sean heard, before his immortal life came to a violent end, was the roar of automatic weapons fire cutting down the two werewolves in a hail of unleashed silver. It seemed a fitting eulogy. 

Aiden scurried through the dark underground labyrinth like a frightened rat trapped in a maze. He didn't care where he was going, as long as it was away from Raife. A blood-soaked parody of his usual elegant self, he held onto the silver nitrate gun for dear life, not that he expected it would do much good against the enraged Elder. Would even ultraviolet ammunition be enough to stop Raife now that the all-powerful immortal had been restored to his accustomed prowess? Aiden didn't feel like finding out. Displaced entrails and ordure squished beneath Aiden's boots as he treaded softly down a narrow catacomb that seemed to have witnessed its fair share of carnage. The disparate scents of blood, putrefaction, and gunpowder formed a malodorous medley in the smoky atmosphere, and Aiden wondered vaguely who might have won the battle, the Death Dealers or the lycans? _It doesn't matter,_ Aiden recognized bleakly. _Both sides want me dead. _He glanced nervously back over his shoulder, watching warily for the silver glint of Raife's mighty sword, then turned his eyes back toward the winding path ahead. His undead heart missed a beat as he suddenly spotted a crouching werewolf only a few centimetres in front of him. Aiden swallowed hard. His mouth turned dry as chalk. By the gods, he was practically on top of the hellspawn. The beast's back was to Aiden, and he appeared to be busily consuming the flesh of a fallen Death Dealer. The bodies of two other werewolves lay crumpled on the floor nearby, their shaggy carcasses bearing the bloody bootprints of a retreating force of vampires or lycans. Grotesque crunching and slurping sounds emanated from the slavering maw of the preoccupied monster as he enthusiastically feasted on the mangled remains of one of Aiden's fellow immortals. Whom exactly was the beast devouring so voraciously? Aiden was not going to linger in hopes of catching a glimpse of the dead vampire's face. Holding his breath, he stepped backward as softly and silently as he could, retreating the way he had come. He prayed that the gluttonous beast was too immersed in his carnivorous repast to notice his arrival—and abrupt departure. As quiet as the fleeing vampire was, some stray sound or scent attracted the werewolf's interest. He lifted his massive head from the ravaged torso of his meal and rotated his shaggy ears in Aiden's direction. A second later, he spun around on all fours and attentively sniffed the tunnel behind him. Aiden was nowhere in sight. His entire brawny physique was squeezed into a dark alcove smaller than even the most minuscule closet back at the mansion. He pressed himself tightly against the slimy, mildewed walls, trying to make himself infinitely smaller and less noticeable. Alas, unlike the colourful vampires of fiction, he could not just turn into a bat and fly away. He stood there, drenched in sweat and biting down on his own hand to keep from whimpering out loud, until the hungry animal turned back to his grisly feast. The sound of cracking bones and exploding organs followed Aiden away from the horrid scene of the slaughter. 

The main chamber. Soren backed up involuntarily as Clay completed his obscene metamorphosis. The muscular black lycan no longer looked remotely human; instead, an all-out werewolf faced Soren across the muddy floor of the forgotten bunker. Icy water rained down on them, and they splashed through greasy, iridescent puddles as they circled each other in a lethal dance of fangs, claws, and darting silver whips. _That's right, animal,_ Soren silently dared him. _Just try to get past my whips!_ He felt like a lion tamer holding a rebellious carnivore at bay. Gripping a whip in each hand, he snapped the silver lashes in the air between him and the beast. Bright lycan blood stained the tips of the twin scourges. _Let's settle this once and for all. _Livid red scars marked the werewolf's snout where Soren had slashed Clay's face with his whips. The lycan's clothing lay in a shredded heap at the creature's feet, replaced by a bristling coat of coarse black fur. Cobalt-blue eyes glared at Soren with predatory intent. A low, basso growl rumbled from the depths of the werewolf's ample chest. Taking the offensive, Soren lashed out with his whips again. The silver cables whistled through the rain, but, instead of flinching away from the bite of the striking lashes, the scarred werewolf reached out and grabbed onto a whip with each gnarled claw. Smoke rose from the monsters hairy mitts, as the caustic silver burned the leathery pads of his paws, yet Clay held onto the captured lashes long enough to yank them both from Soren's grasp. _Hellfire!_ The dark-haired vampire suddenly found himself empty-handed. He reached automatically for his gun, only to remember that the suspicious lycans had confiscated it earlier. _I'm done for,_ he realized, _but I'll be damned if I'll let any slobbering cur see me afraid. _"Come on, you motherfucker!" he challenged Clay. Roaring like an entire pack of lycanthropes, the werewolf lunged at Soren with demonic speed. He slammed into the waiting vampire like a bullet train, knocking him backward into an ankle-deep puddle of turbid water. Soren fought back with everything he had as the two immortals thrashed violently in the sludge. The vampire sank his fingers into the beast's furry neck, trying to keep Clay's snapping maw away from his throat, but the werewolf's heavy forepaws pushed Soren's head and shoulders beneath the surface of the pooling water, causing the vampire to cough and sputter as he lost his hold on the monster's neck. Clay's lupine snout darted into the shallow depths of the puddle, like a bird of prey diving for a fishy snack, and the turbulent water turned brightly incarnadine as powerful jaws crunched down on Soren's centuries-old skull. The faithful janissary didn't even have time to wonder how Lord Aiden would survive without him. 

Savouring the strength and speed of his wolfen body, Clay exulted as he tasted Soren's brains. The savage joy of the kill delighted the beast Clay had become, and he raised his blood-smeared muzzle from the crimson puddle as his eyes and nose and ears searched avidly for fresh prey. His bestial prayers were answered by the sight, through a gap in a broken wall, of four more Death Dealers sweeping down the adjacent passageway, led by none other than Raife himself. His aroused senses registered that the Elder was garbed in the archaic vestments and gilt adornments of a previous era, but the transformed shape-shifter was less interested in Raife's antiquated apparel than in the savoury meat and blood beneath the vampire's robes. Soren was just an appetizer; Clay wanted more. Fangs bared, he burst through the wall at the unsuspecting bloods. He pounced first at Raife, eager to tear out the ancient blood's throat with his teeth. Then he would rip apart the other vampires, just as he had slaughtered Soren and that Death Dealer on the subway tracks two nights ago. Life was good…

But, without so much as batting an eye, Raife reached out and grabbed Clay by the throat. He effortlessly lifted the startled werewolf with one hand, holding him up and away from him as Clay flailed and twisted in the vampire's grip, snapping fruitlessly at the empty air. He clawed at the outstretched arm keeping him aloft, but his slashing talons had no effect on the impervious Elder. Cold, eerie blue eyes regarded him with detached amusement. _What the hell are you?_ Clay's animalistic brain struggled to comprehend. This was impossible; he had never feared a vampire before. Until now. 

_CRACK!_Raife snapped the brute's neck in an instant, then dropped the lifeless animal to the floor and casually kicked the carcass to the side. _Interesting,_ he reflected calmly. It had been more than a century since he had killed a werewolf with his bare hands. He was pleased to discover that he still enjoyed the experience. _Some things never grow stale, it appears. _A chorus of angry shouts disturbed his nostalgic musings. A quartet of bellowing lycans, clad in drab modern clothing, charged around the corner at Raife and his cohorts. Their grimy faces were contorted with rage, and they brandished their guns and rifles in a berserk fury. "Throw down your weapons!" a particularly unkempt specimen shouted belligerently, aiming the muzzle of a futuristic firearm at Raife. "We have you covered!" _They want to take me hostage,_ Raife realized, grasping the lycans' intentions. A thin smile appeared on his lean, austere features. _How amusing. _He moved with preternatural speed, so quickly that he appeared to be nothing but a blur of motion. Unsheathing his double-edged sword in a single fluid motion, he surged forward and cleaved the startled lycans into pieces before they could fire a single shot from their superfluously modern weapons. Within an instant, all four insurgents lay in fragments on the gritty concrete floor. Raife lowered his sword, his effortless task complete. The resurrected Elder was not even breathing hard, nor had his sluggish pulse quickened at all during the brief, uneven contest. He glanced back at his retinue of Death Dealers and found the younger vampires staring at him wide-eyed. They fumbled with their own firearms sheepishly, embarrassed to have been proven so thoroughly extraneous. Clearly, it had been too long since these callow Death Dealers had last seen an Elder in action. Raife hoped that standards had not become too lax during his century-long hibernation. _Yet another lapse to hold Aiden accountable for,_ he decided, _once the traitor is cornered at last. _Stepping over the diced remains of the four lycans, not to mention the dead werewolf to one side, he strode deeper into the enemy's lair. He had wasted too much time in these petty altercations. There were more pressing matters to deal with, now and for all time. 


	32. Chapter 32

_**Chapter Thirty-two**_

Hand in hand, Spencer and Ashley hustled through a chain of interlocking bunkers. Through the cracked and unwashed windows of the forgotten chambers, they glimpsed flashes of the brutal conflict being waged throughout the sprawling bunker by vampires, werewolves, and humanoid lycans. Gunshots punctuated the strident screams, curses, and growls coming from all around them. The air reeked of blood, death, and gunpowder. _I don't believe this,_ Spencer thought, aghast at the appalling carnage. It was all she could do to keep her mind on their circuitous trek through the underworld, despite the frightful spectacle confronting him at every turn. _It's like some twisted Transylvanian version of D-Day! _They emerged from the back of a derelict bomb shelter to find themselves at the foot of a winding metal staircase leading up into the higher reaches of the vast underground complex. A leather-clad vampire lay on the bottom step of the stairway, his blackened body carbonized by a barrage of UV shells. The charred remains were barely recognizable. "One of Soren's men," Ashley pronounced without sympathy. She bent down and plucked a semiautomatic handgun from the corpse's fingers. She tugged back the slide, and an enormous 50-caliber silver bullet racked into position. "Good. It's loaded." She pressed the heavy weapon, weighing at least four pounds, into Spencer's hands. The blonde stared numbly, feeling the unaccustomed weight of it in her hand. Before a few days ago, she had barely ever handled a gun before, let alone been expected to fire it at another living being. _I'm a doctor,_ her brain objected silently. _I should be playing medic, not soldier. _But apparently there was no other choice, not if she and Ashley wanted to get out of this freaky bloodbath alive. And Spencer found that she very much wanted to keep living, lycanthropy and all, if only to explore this strange new love she had found with Ashley.

They cautiously climbed the stairs, coming finally to an arched doorway maybe fifteen feet above the main floor of the bunker. Icy water continued to fall from the ceiling of the central excavation, and Spencer hoped they wouldn't have to go out under the deluge. Leading the way, Ashley coolly entered the shadowy chamber beyond the doorway. A cacophonous roar greeted Spencer's ears, and a werewolf exploded from the darkness. His razor-sharp claws sliced downward, right through Ashley's shoulder and into her left thigh. She shrieked in pain, dropping to one knee. Her gun went flying off down the stairs, rattling loudly against the descending steel steps. Reacting instinctively, Spencer fired her own pistol at the attacking monster, who yelped sharply as the silver bullets struck him directly in the chest. Blood spouted from his furry coat, and the wounded werewolf jerked frenetically, the flash of the muzzle blasts creating a strobe effect as the beast went through its violent death throes. By the time the werewolf thumped, lifeless, to the floor, Spencer felt as though she had been firing at the monster forever. Convinced the creature was really dead, she dropped down beside Ashley and frantically checked her wounds. Her ivory skin pulled tightly over her graceful features, Ashley sucked down the pain and tried to minimize her injuries. "I'll be fine," she insisted. The gaping red gashes would be enough to send an ordinary human being into shock. Spencer prayed that Ashley knew what she was talking about. "I've heard that before," the blonde said drily. As she recalled, Ashley had said pretty much the same thing before collapsing at the wheel of her Jaguar and driving them straight into the Danube. _Let's hope this turns out a little better,_ Spencer mused. Ashley smirked and took her hand. As gently as she could manage, Spencer helped Ashley to her feet, and they stumbled together past the deceased werewolf. Ashley hobbled badly, despite her best efforts, but they pressed onward, lacking any better alternative. Spencer wondered if she dared take the injured vampiress to an emergency room if and when they made it back to the surface. _I suppose an immediate transfusion would be the best prescription,_ she speculated, thinking like a doctor. How else did you treat a wounded vampire except with plenty of fresh blood? _Courtesy of her good friends at Ziodex, no doubt. _"Come on," Ashley murmured weakly. "This way." A rusty iron door led to what appeared to be a working generator room. A blocky, diesel-powered generator, about four feet tall and ten feet long, chugged away at the other side of the bare, utilitarian compartment. Spencer guessed that this was where the lycans got the power to run the underworld's meagre lighting. The room's walls had seen better days; broken gaps in the brickwork offered unobstructed views of the bunkers main chamber, where the unchecked rain could be seen pouring past the open windows toward the ground floor fifteen feet below. Ironically, the generator room itself was lit by a single naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Spencer couldn't tell at first if they had hit a dead end or not. She peered into the unlit room, looking for another exit, only to find herself face-to-face with a vengeful-looking apparition covered from head to toe in dirt and blood. _Who?_ she wondered. 

_Aiden!_ Ashley gasped. The treacherous regent looked like hell, his once fine apparel literally caked with mud and gore. Ashley's eyes widened in alarm as she spotted the stolen silver nitrate gun in his right hand. She tried to lunge for the gun, but she was too weak. Before she could warn Spencer, or even try to reason with Aiden, the experimental pistol whipped upward and fired point-blank into Spencer's chest. _Blam-blam-blam!_ Spencer fell backward onto the floor, three grisly bullet wounds showing through her punctured T-shirt. She began convulsing immediately, as the liquid silver raced through her veins. Volcanic tremors rocked her body, and an anguished grimace disfigured his face. Bloody foam bubbled up through her lips, signifying serious internal injuries as well as the corrosive silver poisoning. Ashley's moist brown eyes gleaming like gemstones, she collapsed next to Spencer. Her own grievous injuries were forgotten as she stared in abject horror at the swollen silver veins creeping across the blonde's cheeks and forehead. Spencer moaned piteously as Aiden's poison spread remorselessly through her body. For one heartbreaking instant, she managed to meet Ashley's grief-stricken eyes, then her own bloodshot orbs rolled upward in their sockets, exposing their whites. Her muscles sagged as she slipped into unconsciousness, looking only moments from death itself.

_No!_ Ashley thought in despair. _You can't die now. Not when I've finally found you!_ She felt her only hope for love and happiness dying with Spencer. _I never even knew what I was missing before! _Who would have guessed that the imminent death of a lycan could affect her so? _Despite my so-called immortality,_ she realized bitterly, _I haven't really been alive since my family died more than a century ago. I have been just what the mortals think we are, one of the living dead. _Her unconcealed sorrow infuriated Aiden, who grabbed her roughly by her injured shoulder and tried to haul her to her feet. "That's enough!" He sneered in disgust. "You're coming with me!" Ashley couldn't believe that Aiden still thought she belonged to him. "Never!" she answered. Only the smoking gun in Aiden's hand, and the fact that her own gun had been lost on the stairs, kept her from killing him where he stood, despite her injuries. "I only hope I live long enough to watch Raife slowly choke the life from you." Hatred blazed in Aiden's eyes. "I'll bet you do, but let me tell you a little something about your beloved dark father. He's the one who killed your family, not the lycans." _What?_ Ashley had thought her life and beliefs could not be overturned even further, but she had been wrong. Aiden's shocking declaration hit her like a blast of killing sunshine. Visions of her slaughtered family—her martyred mother, father, sister, and nieces—flashed through her memory like images from a never-ending nightmare. She saw once again her father's skull broken open, exposing the bloody pulp inside. _Raife?_ she thought unsteadily. _Raife was responsible? _

"He never could follow his own rules," Aiden elaborated. He grinned broadly, enjoying her distress. "No cattle blood for him, not when he thirsted for something more stimulating." Aiden shrugged, taking Raife's alleged atrocities in stride. "I cleaned up the messes for him, kept his secrets." _No!_ Ashley thought desperately. _It can't be true._ She wanted to plug her ears, keep out Aiden's horrendous accusations, but somehow, deep down inside, she knew he was telling the truth. The awful realization washed over her like a tidal wave. _How could I have been so blind, so naive? _"It was he who crept from room to room," Aiden said gleefully, "dispatching everyone close to your heart. But when he got to you, he just couldn't bear the thought of draining you dry like the others. You, who reminded him so much of his long-lost Kyla, the precious daughter he condemned to death." Ashley nodded, choking back a sob. _I thought of him as a second father,_ she admitted, _and for all these years, I never suspected him for a moment. I spent more than a century killing lycans for a crime they never committed. _She felt utterly lost and defeated. But Aiden was not done with her yet. He tugged once more on her wounded shoulder, trying to force her to her feet. "Now, come. Your place is at my side." _My place is with Spencer,_ she resolved. She glared up at the loathsome, blood-caked regent. No words were needed to convey the full extent of her disgust. "So be it," Aiden said, abandoning his obscene infatuation at last. He pressed the muzzle of the silver nitrate gun against her temple.

_Do it!_ she dared him, her scornful gaze not faltering for a heartbeat. With Spencer dying, she had nothing left to live for. Aiden nodded grimly. He slowly squeezed the trigger. A bloody hand grabbed his ankle, startling Ashley and Aiden alike. He looked down in surprise to discover Glen's withered hand clutching him. The legendary lycan warrior looked much worse than Ashley remembered him from their brief encounter at Spencer's apartment building. His bearded face was ashen and streaked with throbbing, dull-gray veins—just as Spencer's was. His breath rattled hoarsely in his chest as he crawled pathetically on his hands and knees, shaking with violent tremors. Ashley guessed at once that Spencer had not been the first victim of the stolen silver nitrate gun. Aiden's smug laughter confirmed her suspicions. He sneered at Glen's lamentable condition, taking pleasure in the lycan's dying moments. It appeared that he finally had vanquished the infamous lycanthrope after all. But Glen still had one more trick up his sleeve—literally. Biting down on his lip, he mustered his remaining strength and lifted his head to stare balefully into Aiden's eyes. Then a spring-loaded black blade shot out of the sleeve of his jacket and into Aiden's leg. A phantom pain stabbed Ashley in the shoulder as she remembered the same blade coming through the roof of the Jaguar. She hoped that the vicious blade hurt Aiden as much as it had hurt her.

Aiden collapsed to the ground, yelping in agony. As he fell, the blade twisted in his leg and snapped in half, sending another spasm of pain through the writhing vampire regent. Looking across Aiden's fallen body, Ashley and Glen locked eyes uncertainly. The dying lycan's gaze shifted from Ashley to Spencer and back again. A strangely wistful expression came over the dreaded warrior's face, and Ashley wondered just how much Glen had seen and heard in the last few minutes. Her own gaze was drawn inevitably to the gleaming pendant around Glen's neck. _Kyla's pendant,_ she now knew, recalling the story Spencer had hurriedly told her back in the infirmary, about how this hellish war had begun. _Glen and Kyla._ They had also defied Raife's Draconian wrath to love each other despite the boundaries between their two species, and they had paid a terrible price for their passion, just as she and Spencer were doing. Did Glen understand how history was repeating itself? Perhaps.

"Bite her," he croaked hoarsely. At first, she didn't know what he meant. Then she remembered what that captured lycan scientist had explained before: "Half vampire, half lycan. But stronger than both." Could it be true? Was there actually a chance? In theory, Spencer's blood possessed the unique ability to absorb both lycan and vampire attributes, but was she willing to risk poisoning Spencer further, on the word of a lycanthropic mad scientist? Uncertainty flooded her face, and she stared anxiously at Glen, who implored her urgently. "Do it… it's the only way to save her life." A bittersweet smile manifested itself on Glen's stricken features as Ashley nodded and turned back toward Spencer. Only a few centimetres away, likewise sprawled on the gritty cement floor, Aiden winced mightily as he pried the broken blade out of his skewered leg. His pain-filled eyes blinked in surprise as he saw Ashley dip her lips toward Spencer's bare neck. Surrendering to a profound longing she had not dared to acknowledge before, not even to herself, Ashley opened her mouth wide and sank her fangs deeply into Spencer's throat. _Yes!_ she thought ecstatically. _At last!_

"What the hell are you doing?" Aiden yelled at Ashley. The horrified outrage in his voice was music to Glen's ears. "You may have murdered me, cousin," the lycan taunted Aiden with his dying breath, "but my will is done regardless." _If only Raife could be here to share this moment as well,_ Glen mused. His war finally over, he sagged limply upon the floor. He could feel the deadly silver nitrate completing its malignant work. His broken heart burned like a thing afire. Thin tendrils of yellow smoke rose from his lips and nostrils as his internal organs combusted volcanically. _The hour is come, my love,_ he thought, at peace despite the blazing pain consuming him. In his mind's eye, he could see the radiant face of the incandescent vampire princess who had won his heart so many centuries ago. _You need wait for me no longer. We will be together again. _Not content to let Glen die of silver poisoning, Aiden snatched up the silver nitrate gun from where it had fallen and levelled it at Glen. _Blam! _Glen, champion of the lycanthropes, was dead. This time for certain. 

Spencer's hot blood coursed down her throat. Even tainted with silver nitrate, which was entirely harmless to her, the taste of the young doctor inflamed her senses. Her lips pressed tightly against Spencer's jugular while her tongue lapped at the crimson stream leaking from the blonde's neck. She sank her fangs into Spencer's flesh as deeply as she could, fighting the temptation to suck every last drop of her blood from her body. _By the Ancestors!_ she thrilled, finally understanding what it truly meant to be a vampire. _I never knew it could be like this! _She had to remind herself that the idea was not to drain Spencer but to infect her with the vampire strain of the original mutation. Reluctantly, she withdrew her fangs and looked down at Spencer anxiously. _Was that enough?_ she worried. She had never tried to change a mortal before, let alone a lycan. _Have I saved her or ensured her death? _

Before she had a chance to find out, a powerful hand grabbed her by the collar and yanked her away from Spencer. A second later, that same hand threw her forcefully into the nearby generator, so that she smashed into the bulky steel mechanism before tumbling to the floor. The steady thrum of the generator was joined by the sudden ringing in her ears. "Where is he?" Raife demanded. "Where is Aiden?" The Elder stood over her, clad in the forbidding raiment of a medieval warlord. An enormous sword was sheathed at his side, while three undead bodyguards blocked the exit. Conditioned to obey Raife, despite everything she had just learned, Ashley searched the chamber for Aiden, but the wily ex-regent was nowhere to be seen. Only a broken shard of Glen's blade lay on the floor where Aiden had been moments before. _Damn him!_ Ashley fumed, realizing that Aiden must have slipped away while she was biting Spencer. _That lying bastard's got more lives than a cat! _Raife's merciless eyes scanned the compartment as well. His saturnine expression darkened as he saw for himself that Aiden was missing. Scowling, he turned his attention to Spencer instead. The moribund American was still lying helplessly on the floor, her eyes rolled up in their sockets. Silver nitrate leaked from the bullet wounds in her chest, and her limbs jerked spastically. The mark of Ashley's crimson kiss glistened wetly on the young woman's throat. Raife glared at the bite wound for a long moment. Then he turned and locked eyes with Ashley. A look of extreme disappointment curled his patrician lips. His saddened gaze made it crystal clear that, to his mind, she had failed him again. "Very well," he stated mournfully. "I'll do it myself."

He stepped toward Spencer, reptilian eyes burning with lethal intent. Lost in her private battle against the toxic silver ravaging her system, Spencer made no effort to save herself, was not even aware of the danger. "No!" Ashley cried out. She sprang forward to stop Raife, but the mighty Elder knocked her aside with a Herculean blow that sent her flying across the generator room into the opposite wall. The chipped and flaking brickwork cut her forehead, causing blood to trickle down her face. Dazed, she crumpled to the floor. Hissing like a serpent, Raife grabbed Spencer by the throat and swiped her off the floor with a single hand. Fangs bared, the Elder savagely slammed Spencer against the brick wall separating the generator room from the central chamber. Bones snapped and concrete crumbled as, with one smooth movement, Raife shoved Spencer all the way _through_ the dilapidated wall, creating a jagged hole that looked out over the rain-filled bunker. Ashley watched in dismay as Spencer, along with an avalanche of broken concrete, plummeted through the gap, falling five meters to the flooded floor below. She heard Spencer land with a splash—and a sickening, bone-crunching thud. Raife smiled and wiped his hands together, as though finished with a mildly unpleasant chore. He turned back toward Ashley, his eyes still vibrant with hatred. The shaken vampiress cringed as he stepped toward her. She glared at him, deeply hurt, like a blameless child who has been struck out of hand by a drunken parent. Raife halted, taken aback by the betrayed expression on her face and the rivulets of blood coursing down her cheek. His own features softened and the fury slowly departed his gaze. "Forgive me, child," he murmured. He held out his hand, intending to gently stroke her forehead, but she flinched from his touch. Ashley recalled everything she had learned down here in the underworld. She stared back at him defiantly. "It wasn't the lycans!" she accused him. "It was you!" 


	33. Chapter 33

_**Chapter Thirty-three**_

Although nearly comatose, Spencer felt the tremendous jolt of her crash landing on the floor of the bunker. The jarring impact knocked the breath from her labouring lungs and sent shock waves racing through her entire body. She splashed down into an oily puddle, landing flat on her back. Half submerged in the greasy water, she vaguely registered her new surroundings, even as another wave of cataclysmic tremors shook her body. Her blood fizzed and fermented in her veins and arteries. Shattered bones shifted and warped as though possessed by demons. A peculiar throbbing sensation raced from the stinging bite marks on her neck to the inner depths of her broken body. The injured wolf inside her brain howled louder than the explosions and gunfire echoing through the endless artificial caverns. She felt the change beginning. Yet, over the din, she still could hear Ashley's voice crying out somewhere high above hr. "It wasn't the lycans!" she shouted angrily at an unknown foe, perhaps the same one who had just hurled Spencer through the solid brick wall. "It was you!" Despite the pain and trauma of her transformation, Spencer's soul responded to the woman's voice. Her beleaguered awareness, lost in the primal heart of darkness, crawled fitfully up toward the light. _Ashley! _Fluttering eyelids peeled open. Inhuman eyes glowed cobalt blue. 

"This is all because of you!" she accused Raife. For the first time in ages, a look of discomfort, perhaps even of guilt, passed over the Elder's face. He turned hastily toward his Death Dealer escorts. "Leave us!" The obedient vampires promptly withdrew, closing the door behind them. Ashley found herself alone with her immortal sire. She climbed to her feet and faced him, unafraid. Spencer was gone, thrown to her death before her very eyes, so what else did she have to fear? "What are you going to do?" she challenged him harshly. "Kill me, like you did my family?" Centuries of misplaced anger infused her voice with ringing fervour. "How could you bear my trust, knowing that you murdered my family?" Raife stepped forward, his eyes filled with sympathy. "Yes, I've taken from you," he confessed. "I've hurt you. But I've given so much more. Is it not a fair trade for the life I've granted you? The gift of immortality?" The shock of his damning admission washed over Ashley like a bitter tide. "And the life of your daughter?" she challenged him. "Your own flesh and blood?" Her words struck Raife with greater force than any werewolf's slashing claws. Pain deepened the somber lines of his face as he looked dolefully at Glen's corpse, lying prostrate upon the floor. The Elder crouched down beside his ancient adversary and tugged the metallic pendant from Glen's neck. Ashley _almost_ felt sorry for him. 

The Change gripped Spencer again, just as it had in the back of the police car a few hours ago. Her body writhed and contorted in a series of shock-inducing paroxysms that tore her soggy garments into ribbons. Fractured bones re-knit themselves in new configurations. Protean skin and muscle expanded, gaining mass and density at superhuman speed. Glossy black hair sprouted from Spencer's pulsating hide as fangs jutted sharply from her gums. Barbed claws extended from her fingertips, scratching senselessly at the rocky floor beneath the freezing water. Her spine stretched and twisted, and she felt her entire body morphing into the primitive shape of an animal. The howl of her inner beast drowned out the world. 

Raife rose slowly from the dead lycan's side. He gazed down at the gleaming pendant resting in the palm of his hand. Ancient regrets, buried for centuries, surfaced in his pain-filled eyes and voice. "I loved my daughter," he declared, "but the abomination growing in her womb was a betrayal to me and the entire coven." He glanced vengefully at Glen's corpse, his scorching eyes all but incinerating the lifeless remains of his daughter's lover. "I had no choice." Ashley backed away from Raife, suspecting that she might soon be joining Kyla and Glen in the afterlife.

Spencer Carlin was gone. In her place, a full-blooded werewolf lay sprawled on the floor of the bunker. The falling rain baptized the newborn monster, initiating her into a new and fundamentally altered existence. But the transformation was not complete. The lupine monster spasmed explosively, arching her back in agony. Her hairy limbs splashed against the iridescent surface of the puddle, sending sprays of oily water flying in all directions. An anguished roar erupted from the creature's powerful jaws as the Change began to _regress,_ taking Spencer back through the singular genetic mutations behind the evolution of both vampires and werewolves. The disembodied howl within her skull was joined by the flapping of invisible leather wings. Spencer screamed through mutating vocal cords as she suffered the cataclysmic birth pangs of a brand new life form. 

Raife's eyes were moist, but his voice was cold. "I did what I had to do to protect our species," he said without remorse. "As I am forced to do yet again." He unsheathed his sword, which was stained with freshly spilled blood, and advanced toward Ashley—until a bloodcurdling wail came from the bunker outside. The eerie cry rose from the floor of the central chamber, many meters below the generator room. _Spencer?_ Ashley wondered, afraid to let herself hope that Spencer was still alive. She listened to the bizarre wail in puzzlement. The tortured keening didn't sound human—or lycan. _Is that you?_

Sword in hand, Raife whirled toward the ragged crack in the wall. He peered through the gap at the inundated floor below. His brow wrinkled in confusion. Spencer Carlin was gone. He turned back toward Ashley, intending to extract from her the likely whereabouts of her lycan paramour. _Carlin will die by my hand before this night is through,_ he vowed solemnly. It had taken six centuries for Raife's vengeance to catch up with Glen; he did not intend to wait that long again. "Where—" He began his interrogation, only to be caught off guard by a roundhouse kick to his chin, delivered with extreme vigour by Ashley herself. His head jerked sideways, and his bloody sword escaped from his fingers, flying out through the gap in the wall. He heard it land with a splash on the floor of the chamber below. His temper flared murderously. _You dare strike your sire?_ he railed silently at Ashley. _So be it._ The treasonous slut had signed her own death warrant. He would not wait to capture her lover before consigning Ashley to oblivion. _I should have killed you with the rest of your insipid family years ago! _Turning his gaze ahead once more, he expected to see Ashley putting up some futile show of resistance. Instead, he got the shock of his immortal existence as he found himself face-to-face with…_What?_ The uncanny creature standing before him, defending Ashley from his approach, was like nothing Raife had ever seen before. Not quite vampire, not quite werewolf, but something uniquely in between. Striking in appearance, the hybrid immortal looked more human than beast and more demon than human. Jet-black eyes gleamed like quicksilver. An iridescent, metallic sheen added luster to her rippling flesh, giving her the look of a classical sculpture brought to life. Her hairless chest gleamed beneath the flickering lights, while her soggy trousers and sport's bra preserved a modicum of decency. Although her beautiful features were essentially human once more, sharpened teeth and nails betrayed her predatory nature.

"Spencer?" Ashley whispered in awe. Raife had only an instant to react to the unnerving sight of the hybrid creature and to marvel at the preternatural speed at which Carlin had returned to the generator room. Then Spencer's clenched fist slammed into Raife's chest with the force of a wrecking ball, driving the Elder's silver medallion into his chest and sending Raife through what was left of the crumbling brick wall. He fell fifteen feet before crashing into the muddy floor of the main chamber. His momentum sent him tumbling through the filthy muck until he smacked into a pair of unmoving, adamantine legs. He looked up in stunned amazement to see Spencer Carlin staring down at him with her unearthly black eyes. _What? _he thought, flabbergasted. _How the devil did she get down here so quickly? _He hurriedly rolled in the opposite direction and scrambled to his feet but once again found Spencer standing directly in front of him. The hybrid's speed was astounding even by immortal standards. Raife suddenly felt something he hadn't experienced in untold centuries: fear. But he declined to let his fear undo him. _No mongrel freak will make me yield,_ he resolved, girding himself for the battle to come. He faced off against Spencer beneath the cascading rain. _My blood is pure. My will is supreme!_

They circled each other menacingly, searching for an opening, clawed hands poised to strike. Raife's reptilian white eyes contrasted sharply with Spencer's roiling black orbs. Two sets of pearly fangs gnashed in primal warning. As if responding to some subliminal signal, they surged toward each other simultaneously. The past collided with the future as the Elder vampire and the newly created hybrid smashed together with stupendous force, sending seismic vibrations throughout the underworld. They traded colossal blows, hammering each other like warring gods. The entire bunker trembled. 

The earth-shaking jolts brought every other conflict to a halt. All around the vast subterranean complex, vampires, werewolves, and lycans stopped fighting as the epic clash commanded their rapt attention. Equally spellbound, they flocked to the catwalks and subway tracks overlooking the arenalike central chamber, jostling for a better view of the battle royal going on below. Even the dimmest and most bloodthirsty spectator realized that the history of his shadowy, secret world was being rewritten before his very eyes. Spencer had never felt so powerful, so unstoppable. Superhuman strength and energy throbbed in her transformed muscles and sinews, while her every sense was ten times keener than ever before. All her fear and confusion were things of the past. Spencer didn't know exactly what it was that she had become, thanks to Ashley's miraculous kiss, but she knew that she was now something infinitely more majestic than just a simple American medical student. _Bring on the vamps and wolves!_ She exulted, revelling in her new-found courage and vitality. _I'm not afraid anymore. _She recognized Raife from Glen's memories, and his firsthand experience of Glen and Kyla's tragic saga only heightened her desire to destroy the pitiless vampire tyrant, besides the fact that Raife had tried to kill both her and Ashley. She slashed at the Elder with her taloned hands and snarled at her enemy through clenched white fangs. In her heart, she knew that she was stronger than any mere vampire. But Raife had centuries of battle experience to draw upon. In a stealthy move, he caught Spencer by surprise by dropping down and swiping Spencer's legs out from under her. It took only a split second, and the next thing Spencer knew, she was flat on her back with Raife hammering her from above. The vampire's naked fists fell like a meteor storm against Spencer's face and stomach. Her body shuddered before the blows, and her skull rang like the interior of an enormous cathedral bell. Her vision dimmed as she felt herself blacking out. 

Like every other soul in the underworld, Ashley watched the fierce contest with both wonder and apprehension. She peered down through the shattered wall at the titanic battle between Raife and Spencer, knowing that her own immortal existence depended on the outcome. Was it even possible for Raife to be defeated? Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flurry of movement at the periphery of the scene. The instincts of a veteran Death Dealer fired up, and she turned quickly to see Raife's three armed bodyguards drop from the top of the stairway to the floor of the bunker many feet below. They splashed to earth only a few paces away from Raife and Spencer and raised their automatic pistols ominously. Ashley didn't wait for them to get a clear shot at Spencer. She sprang from the demolished generator room into the air above the bunker, landing nimbly right behind the three Death Dealers. Without even pausing to catch her breath, she snapped the neck of the first warrior, elbowed the second one in the throat, and snatched his gun from his hand. _Blam-blam-blam!_ Death blazed from the muzzle of the captured weapon, and three seconds later, a trio of corpses littered the ground. Vampire blood joined the rippling puddles of water flooding the floor of the bunker. The massacre was over before Ashley had a chance to realize that she had just killed three of her fellow Death Dealers. A gnawing sense of horror momentarily stopped her in her tracks. _Forgive me,_ she thought. _I never wanted to slay my own kind. _She would have no regrets, however, about executing Raife for the murder of her mortal family. Gun in hand, she whirled around to blow Raife away, but the indomitable Elder was still too fast for her. A jarring blow knocked the gun right out of her hand, and Ashley gasped to see Raife directly in front of her, less than a meter away. "How sharper than a serpent's tooth," he whispered, quoting the Bard, "it is to have a thankless child!" Before she had a chance to react, Raife's open palm slammed into her like a battering ram, propelling her halfway through the nearest wall. Rock-hard chunks of concrete tumbled down into the muddy water as Ashley slid into the churning ooze. A fresh gout of blood streamed from beneath her hairline. 

With Raife briefly occupied with Ashley, Spencer seized the opportunity to haul herself to her feet. Her ebony eyes widened as she spotted Ashley's battered body slumping into the sludge, apparently out cold—or worse. She sloshed loudly through the ankle-deep water, rushing to the vampiress side. "Ashley!" Even her voice had been transformed, becoming deeper and more resonant. Her heartfelt cry echoed throughout the vast excavation, reaching the ears of werewolf and vampire alike. "Ashley!" To her relief, the brunette's eyes slowly flickered open. _Thank God!_ Spencer rejoiced, intent only on Ashley. She wasn't going to let the vampiress die, not like Carmen. This time, she had the strength to drive death away, just as Ashley had brought her back from the abyss. _What's the good of all this incredible power if I can't save the only person who matters to me? _In the rush of emotion, she forgot about Raife, until the implacable Elder came swooping out of the rain and shadows, descending feet first like some ravenous bird of prey. Raife's steel-toed boots smacked into Spencer's head with breakneck force, spinning her around and sending her flipping head over heels. She crashed facedown into the muck, stunned senseless. Raife moved in for the kill. 

Ashley saw Spencer fall before Raife's assault. Ice-cold blood dripped into her eyes, and she wiped it away with a frantic motion. She lurched forward, desperate to come to Spencer's rescue, but the bunker spun around her vertiginously, and she dropped limply back into the mud, still too dazed and dizzy to get up. Her blurry eyes searched the flooded floor, looking for something she could throw at Raife, just to distract him for a second or two. Her anguished gaze fell on a swath of silver-plated steel glistening in the rain not three centimetres away. Raife's sword!  
>The abomination had to be destroyed. Raife waded determinedly up behind Spencer. He grabbed the hybrid creature by the back of her neck and began to choke her obscene life from her body. Spencer gasped for breath, and the veins on her throat bulged tautly beneath her skin. "Time to die," Raife decreed. "And then your traitorous consort will suffer the same fate."<p>

A glint of light caught the Elder's eye, and he looked up to see a flash of gleaming metal in the rain. Ashley appeared behind the metallic shimmer, landing behind him like a jaguar, with Raife's own sword clutched within her grip. _Again she defies me? Is there no end to her perfidy?_ Dropping Spencer into the muddy quagmire, Raife turned to face Ashley. His fiendish quartz eyes burned with fury, and he tugged the two silver daggers from his belt, gripping one in each hand. He opened his mouth to denounce her, but to his shock, bright arterial blood gushed forth instead of words. _What in the Ancestor's name?_ he wondered in confusion, staggered by the scarlet fountain cascading from his own lips. _How can this be? _He stepped forward uncertainly, and Ashley held up the sword. The edge of the silver blade was slick with newly liberated blood. Raife's jaw dropped, spilling more blood into the murky waters below, and he realized that Ashley had struck him already. _But I created you!_ his mind protested, overcome by the tragic irony. _I made you who you are…_A thin red line materialized on Raife's lordly countenance. The crimson streak ran from the Elder's left ear, right across his cheek, and all the way down to his collar. The useless daggers dropped from his gloved fingers as he reached upward in a panicky attempt to hold his immortal head together. But it was a wasted effort. A frisson of razor-sharp pain flashed through his nervous system as fully half his skull slid off, splashing into the gloppy water. The Elder's body stood erect for a moment more, then toppled backward to land with a crash amid the blood and muck. The Elder's lifeless remains were now merely part of the sewage flowing beneath the ancient city. An era had ended. 

_That was for my family,_ Ashley thought. Sword in hand, she stared grimly at the severed pieces of the fallen Elder. _And for all the other innocents lost to your evil and hypocrisy. _Her heart leaped in joy as Spencer rose from the ground. Her adoring eyes marvelled at the wondrous being the blonde had become. Spencer had transcended her human origins and lycan curse, to evolve into something strange and beautiful to behold. Who knew that the future held such remarkable possibilities? She joined Ashley, silently, inexpressible love and passion radiating from her transfigured face. Together they made a slow turn at the base of the massive bunker, surveying their surroundings for any possible threat. But no attack was forthcoming. Stunned by the momentous victory they had just witnessed, the spectators on the catwalks and elsewhere appeared in no hurry to challenge either Ashley or the manifestly dangerous hybrid. Vampires, werewolves, and lycans peered from the shadows, but none of them was brave enough to make a move. _Smart monsters,_ Ashley thought. Meekly and with little noise, the various creatures of the night scattered, receding into the sheltering darkness of the sprawling underworld. Within minutes, the bunker appeared as empty as the mortals above no doubt imagined the forgotten tunnels to be. Ashley was happy to see them go. There had been enough bloodshed tonight. She retrieved Glen's pendant from Raife's remains and pressed the talisman into Spencer's palm. After all, she was now the custodian of Glen's memories and legacy. Hand in hand, she and Spencer made their way across the flooded chamber and started the long trek back to the world above. Wiping her blood-streaked hair away from her eyes, Ashley smiled as she recalled that only two nights ago, she had regarded the possibility of peace with extreme apprehension. She had dreaded facing immortality without any enemies to destroy. Spencer shape-shifted back into her human guise. Ashley squeezed her hand, feeling her warmth. Spencer smiled back at her, and Ashley laughed at her foolish fears. The war was over, but she had found something new to live for. Perhaps for all eternity. 


	34. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

Hours had passed in the silent crypt. The body of the lycan scientist Singe had gone stiff with rigor mortis, but his immortal blood continued to creep slowly across the marble floor of the underground chamber, threading its way through the intricate design containing the sacred tombs of the Elders. The sanguinary tide passed by Raife's empty niche, then Christine's. Yet, with perverse inevitability, it came to rest atop the polished bronze plaque bearing the sculpted letter _A _for _Arthur_. Rivulets of lycan blood seeped through the edges of the burnished hatch, slithering downward into the sepulchral cavity where Arthur, the last surviving Elder, hung upside-down inside his tomb, like a slumbering vampire bat. The energizing blood poured over Arthur's emaciated frame, streaming down his skeletal body until it reached the thin, withered lips of a skull-like face. Minutes passed, until a dormant heart began to beat with growing strength. A sigh escaped the parched red lips, and a pair of hungry eyes awakened deep within the sunken recesses of their matching sockets. Jet-black eyes, just like Spencer Carlin's had become. Hybrid eyes. 


End file.
